What You're Owed
by carboneternal
Summary: A package arrives at 221B and the contents send John back almost three years. He never thought he'd hear that voice again.
1. The Box

**Author's Note: This was an idea that I couldn't help exploring even if it gets a little angsty. I'm not sure how long each chapter will be, but please enjoy!**

Another night shift at the hospital had left John exhausted. He'd slept for the entire first fourteen hours of his three days off before giving in to the hunger gurgling in his stomach. Try as he might, the doctor couldn't manage to learn to ignore the calls of nature as well as Sh-

Well, he couldn't manage to do it. That was all that mattered.

A quick bacon sandwich was all John bothered to make, even in his current state. He often made full meals only to lose interest in them half way through so less effort was better in the end. A sandwich he could manage as he sat in his favourite armchair, resolutely staring down at the plate in his lap and not the chair opposite him.

After all that time, he couldn't so much as move a piece of furniture. In fact, John had just about skinned Mycroft alive the last time the insufferable man had graced the doctor with his presence while trying to sit in His seat.

_No one else could sit there, wasn't that obvious?_ a deep voice said inside the doctor's head and John silently agreed. If someone else sat there, they would ruin the consulting detective shaped indent which had been left behind along with everything else. John included.

There had been offers to clean out His things, several of them. But John always refused. He couldn't bring himself to part with one expensive button from one expensive suit jacket, forget about the set of test tubes on the table. They simply had to stay there.

John had destroyed some of what was left to him. The doctor had taken to sleeping in His room and may have stolen a few shirts that still clung to that spicy musky smell with only one point of reference for John's mind.

Given the better part of three years to do things like steal his dead flatmate's old shirts, 221B Baker Street had taken a nose dive as far as the number of visitors was concerned. John didn't mind. He might even have preferred it. Surely it was better than the pity shown to him by anyone who bothered to come to call. Even Mrs. Hudson had gone almost two weeks without coming up under the guise of at least dusting the flat if John couldn't be bothered to do it himself.

So hearing his landlady call up the stairs that someone was at the door for him did not fill John with glee. Part of him wanted to yell back to tell whoever it was that he wasn't in but realized that yelling that down the stairs might have made the whole plan redundant.

Reluctantly, he opened the flat's door and made for the main entrance. When he cracked the heavy black door open, John almost sighed in relief to see it was just a postal worker with a small package he needed the doctor to sign for. A comment on how unkept and wrinkled the other man's uniform was was on the tip on John's tongue before he remembered that he was in no position to judge. It was a miracle that he was wearing clean clothes, forget about being uppity about a few creases.

Taking the package with a quiet thanks, John was quick to both shut the door and run back up the stairs before an offer of tea came from 221A.

It was only once he'd dropped the box on one of the few clear spots the kitchen table had that John noticed something was out of place. The box didn't have any return address, or stamps or anything on it which indicated it had gone through a shipping process of any kind.

He almost smiled at himself for noticing these details, how proud Sh-

It was clever of him. That was all that mattered.

Those small oddities faded into the background rather quickly though. What wasn't on the box was much less concerning than what was. What was there felt like a knife twisted into both of John's lungs until he couldn't breathe any longer.

Slanted, long scrawled writing that looked as though it had been done just before the writer had dashed out the door in a hurry. So familiar to the doctor that he took a step towards the box. So terrifying that he quickly took that step back. This was not something he could do. Instead, John put the kettle on.

* * *

It took him a day to work up the courage to open the damn thing.

* * *

There was no packaging inside. No bubble wraps or foam peanuts. All that was inside was a sleek looking phone, one that clearly cost a great deal of money. It made John want to cry and scream at the same time while maybe also vomiting. He recognized that phone. Had seen it so many times before that the doctor didn't know if he could have erased the memory of it if he'd tried. John Watson never tried to forget though, that was the problem. He couldn't forget something as insignificant as a certain phone, not like Sh-

He remembered the phone. That was all that mattered.

It had been His phone. The one those long, elegant fingers had flashed over faster than John would have thought was humanly possible if his own eyes hadn't seen it happen. The phone had always been inside one of His pockets, in stupidly tight trousers or equally stupidly tight suit jackets. John didn't like that now the phone could sit in a box on the kitchen table for a day and no one complained. It didn't surprise him, but still. It didn't bode well with him. John just didn't like it.

A left hand, shaking with a fresh tremor, went to pick up the offending device. Clicking a button to light up the screen, John released a shakey breath when he saw the message on the screen.

_Voicemail Full. Please check incoming messages._

Gripping the phone tighter, John managed to get to the couch before his knees gave out. He gave the phone a look of complete distrust but was still reluctant to place it gingerly on the coffee table. The doctor felt he had a good idea of what would happen if he listened to the electronic command he'd been given, but he needed a moment to steel himself up for it. John was a soldier, a doctor, not a man to shy away from anything and yet. Here he was, shying away from this. This cliff that he stood on the edge of without any idea what lay at the bottom if he were to jump.

He had to be reasonable though. The twenty four hours he'd waited to rip open the cardboard box had kept him up all night as it was. John couldn't handle not knowing. A tanned finger pressed the play button before the ex-army doctor's brain could protest further.

"John…" Came that deep, baritone voice smooth as silk from the speaker. John could have sworn the world stopped spinning. This was the first time he had heard that voice outloud, anywhere besides his own head really, in 1065 days. Almost three years. The voice seemed to know that it should pause to let this fact sink in, but only for a moment.

"John, if you're listening to this then the first thing I must do is offer my sincerest heartfelt apology," Sherlock's voice told him and John knew it was real because he could never have imagined the genuine emotion he could hear in his friend's words.

"I gave instruction that this be given to you should the worse happen, so I am going to assume that this is the case. Again, for that I am sorry. I do not expect you to forgive me, I would not ask that of you my dear, dear John. It was your blog that gave me the idea to do this. If I should leave you as I must have where you are, then I wanted to leave you something. I do not know how much time has passed since I recorded this, or whether you care to hear from me. Is it painful? Sentiment was always more your area. I will understand if you don't wish to listen to the rest of these messages. Feel free to turn this off and get on with your day, make a nice cup of tea perhaps," said the voice with a small chuckle before giving a long pause which John realized was Sherlock waiting for John to turn the recording off. As if he could manage such a thing now.

A sigh came over the airways.

"Loyal to a fault then, perhaps. Alright John, if you are still listening then the second thing I must give you is an explanation.

Author's note: Reviews/Ratings are wonderful and always apperciated!


	2. The Beginning

**Authors Note: Still not sure how many times a week this will be updated, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

"I think it's safe to assume that most stories start at the beginning. I'm not sure this counts as a story, especially if you never listen to what I'm saying. Does it count if I never write it down and only tell it when you're asleep upstairs after a case? Hmm, perhaps I'll ask you about it," the consulting detective pondered aloud on the recording.

_You never did ask_ John thought with a small frown. Another item to add to the list of things he wished Sherlock and him had discussed befo-

He wished they had discussed it, amoung other things. That was all that mattered.

"No, I'd better not say anything about it. I don't want you to ask why I'm curious about story telling. You are delightfully clever with some things John," Sherlock said and John could almost picture the gentle smile that would have been on the other man's face. The one that had always been there when John was praised for being surprising in some way.

"What I confess I'm avoiding having to say is that I'm not sure where to begin."

"That's a first," John muttered under his breath, wondering briefly if other people would still have told him that he sounded far too fond when trying to reprimand the world's only consulting detective. He hoped so.

"Yes, well I don't think we have to worry about it becoming a habit," Sherlock told him in a quiet small voice, sobering John instantly with the reminder of why he was sitting on a couch listening to a phone as if it was shouting the word of God.

"I'll just start with my beginning, how is that John? Perchance you're still curious about my life before you walked into it. Don't worry, I won't be offended should you chose to skip this part if it doesn't interest you anymore."

_God no, I'll take anything_ the ex-army doctor thought with a lump forming in the back of his throat.

Another long pause came over them. "Alright, just checking. Should I just assume you're going to ignore me whenever I suggest you stop listening? It's so frustrating to not be able to predict how you will be when you hear this. Is it frustrating for you?"

"A bit," John confessed out loud, unable to stop himself from taking part in this mad conversation.

"Yes, I suppose it would have to be. If I struggle with the concept then surely you must. It is rather disconcerting that I can hear you snoring at the moment but I no longer exist where you are now. Strange."

"Not the word I would use Sherlock."

"Maybe not strange. Completely beside the point. I'll start these at my beginning, for the sake of clarity. I shall endeavour to be completely honest with you John, given the circumstances.

"That's not a fair trade Sherlock."

"I'm afraid that's the best I can do for you now…" followed a soft sigh through the phone. Too true.

"Well, I was born in the normal way I assume and grew up outside of London. It was a lovely manor, though I'm sure you'd gap at it like a giant toad if I ever took you there. If I can find a reason, maybe I will. Don't hold me to that though John, I did say that it was a lovely manor. I find it much less lovely now."

John moved the phone closer to listen as he curled up more on the couch, finding comfort in the furniture that wasn't being given from that sweet voice.

"You, of course, already know Mycroft. Unfortunate but unavoidable, he's always been that meddlesome. Can you believe it? I swear the second I was born, seven year old Mycroft would have been busy inquiring whether anyone had considered which pre-school I would attend yet. Insufferable git."

John briefly nodded his agreement, Sherlock's brother had taken an unsavoury interest in John's comings and goings in recent years. John did not pretend he didn't know why.

"Any way, he is my only sibling. Then there is Mummy, who I know you've heard Mycroft speak of. It always made you so uncomfortable when he did that."

"Yes, well the idea that she went and made two of you is rather scary," the doctor argued, taking offense to being told he was uncomfortable with anyone whose sons still called her Mummy.

"I dare say that's rather the effect she has on people," Sherlock seemed to agree with another small laugh, leaving John to question yet again whether his friend had been able to read minds.

"Just about John, now do stop distracting me. As I was saying, you've heard of Mummy but I prevented the two of you from ever meeting. I'm not sure you would have accepted if I'd offered to arrange such a thing but I told Mycroft I would pour hydrochloric acid on his best umbrella if he let that woman near you," Sherlock told him, sounding a bit more hesitant after each word.

"I'm…rather like her, I've been told. Maybe it's genetic. I had to have gotten it from somewhere I'm told. She is brilliant John… more than either Mycroft or I, I'm reasonably sure. I am more like her though, is it hard to believe that Mycroft was too tender hearted for her liking?"

"God, how is that even possible?"

"How indeed. It would seem his love of politics and 'playing the field' as he called it were not traits that endeared him to Mummy. Especially after Father left. Perhaps I'll tell you about that later. They rarely spoke after that though, Mycroft and Mummy. But we got on, her and I. I was better at it than he was John, it came so naturally. All that cold indifference, ignoring how other's felt. Focusing on puzzles and seeing how people ticked. She taught me that, how people moved and spoke. How to properly see, to deduce. Mummy took the world and cracked it open for me. I have yet to decide whether I'm glad or furious with her for this. If you actually hear this, I guess furious won out in the end wouldn't you say?"

John wouldn't say. He had nothing to say.

"Mycroft learned on his own and I had Mummy. That might be where our differences started; we did get along once upon a time. Ha, proper story now, did you see that? Yes well, it didn't last forever. It felt like it would, like it did but that is not the case is it my dear, dear John? She is brilliant, and I suspect I owe her in some way since it was her teachings that put me in the lab that day you limped in. I owe her you, which makes things complicated. Difficult. Messy. One of those words you like to use on your blog when you can't be bothered to look up what the correct descriptor would be. Because she was brilliant but she was terrible too. I'm rather like her remember and that will beeven more true if you ever do listen to this; I am trying to be quiet now so you won't hear by accident tonight. Can you understand that John? It is important that you do. If I've done what I must have for you to get this phone, I must believe you can relate to that sentiment."

It was difficult to hear those words coming from that mouth, even if all John actually had was a dim rectangle screen to look at. It was difficult to hear that Sherlock had not acted senselessly that day. John had never been sure if Sherlock had considered his feelings before jumping. To truly accept how far in advance Sherlock had considered his actions made John's stomach churn.

_Why couldn't you just tell me? Why didn't you reach out? I would have listened_ he thought desperately.

"It hurts more, when you know precisely how clever they are. More intentional," Sherlock told him in that strange soft voice again.

"I do not like owing her for you. But I will tell you more about her later, it is a bit draining to think of all these things and I can't have you accusing me of not sleeping again. Rest assured, I'll explain myself better shortly. If I owe her at all for you, I owe you her much more. I suppose beginnings are important John. Until next time," the deep voice said before the playback fell silent to leave John alone in the flat once more.

He should shower, get dressed, go get something to eat. Stop by the hospital to see if he could use one of his days off to work as usual. Instead John pressed the _Next_ button and waited.

**Authors Note: Another chapter will be up soon! Am I the only one whose been listening to 'Payphone' non-stop because of this story? Ah well**


	3. The Leaving

**Authors Note:I'm trying really hard to keep up with this one, happy reading!**

There was more background noise in the next message. A soft sort of hum that John found very familiar. London noise. Must have been daytime when Sherlock recorded it, instead of the dead of night.

"I should apologize for that John," the baritone said and John tried to ignore the irrational relief he felt that it continued to be Sherlock's voice speaking to him. John wasn't sure what he would do if any of the messages were old saved ones, merely taking up space that the world's only consulting detective could have filled up before h-

John only wanted to hear from Sherlock. That was all that mattered.

Still, the doctor wondered what it was specifically that Sherlock wanted to apologize for.

_The list is pretty long, bit not good_ he thought bitterly.

"For the foot in the freezer," Sherlock's voice clarified.

Right. John could remember how that argument had gone. Some horrific experiment of Sherlock's that one of his dates had found when she went looking for ice cubes in as stupid a place as the freezer. Sherlock had never said sorry for the incident, in fact the detective had told John that it wasn't his fault that the doctor's love interests went poking their noses in important experiments. This had angered John so much that he'd gone an-

"You stormed out, yes. Though I will remind you that the exact details of how flesh freezes and then thaws has many important implications, I believe I can see how I upset you," Sherlock told him, voice sounding warm and not the least bit annoyed which had been how the detective reacted when John had returned from that walk.

"Regardless, I thought I might use this free time to continue our story. You know how I enjoy talking to you when you aren't here," was followed with a soft laugh that John thought he would never tire of hearing.

_If only I could have made you do that more when I had the chance…_

" I don't think you're really _that_ mad at me, you aren't trying very hard with this latest woman, so I don't have long to talk. Which is fine, for the best actually, as this isn't a topic I have a lot to say about. I wish to tell you a bit about my father John, hopefully you find this agreeable. I think… I think it best that we discuss Mummy again later. We've time enough for my father though, so do relax John. Maybe make some tea, a nice soothing chamomile perhaps and toast with that fresh strawberry jam. I can't imagine my no longer existing has stopped your fondness for that particular meal, feel free to make it as I go," Sherlock said and the detective sounded as if he was settled with some take out himself a hundred lifetimes ago so John obeyed the order. Carrying the phone into the kitchen like a precious jewel, the doctor set about making his tea and toast while listening to the only voice which had managed to sooth him in three years.

"My father left when I was four, that's why there isn't much to say. I was a bright four year old, but there are limits. I don't resent his leaving, not really. Deep down, I think I understand it. Mummy was just as demanding on him and he was just an ordinary man. They may have been in love once but… it was gone by the time I was around to observe their interactions. So it is logical that he left, though I don't know for sure if he meant to leave Mycroft and I behind so completely," the words had fallen distant and, if John had to hazard a guess, sad.

"He was not an inherently bad man, so I have always suspected it was Mummy who put a stop to any visitation rights. I've never asked Mycroft to find out, or to know why. Is it wrong of me to not want to know something? Do not judge me too harshly for this foray into sentiment John. I suppose I am fearful that I'm wrong, that my father is not who I pieced together in my head."

"That's perfectly normal Sherlock, didn't you know that?"

"Avoidance doesn't work well once you've realized it's what you're doing. Do you understand avoidance John? I wish I knew. Was it something I forced you to learn, in the end? Have you already stopped listening because of it? There are so many questions John."

"I know that, think of all the questions you left Sherlock!" John snapped angrily, almost knocking his fresh mug of tea over.

"Not enough answers to go around. I mustn't get off topic though John, you've just texted me saying you're sorry for yelling but that the foot has to go. So reasonable of you, bravo. You are limiting my time though. Back to my father. My favorite memory of him is a day he took us, Mycroft and I, out to the courtyard behind the house. There was a patch of woods there and he said we were going on an adventure. Even then, I couldn't resist one of those John."

"It's what made you so wonderful Sherlock."

"I went running ahead, wasn't following the path. Mycroft, of course, warned me to play more carefully but I told him pirates never play careful," Sherlock said with a chuckle.

"The whole adventure ended with me tripping over an old tree root and spraining my ankle. I thought I'd cry for a solid week at the time, but my father just smiled at me. Picked me up and said I shouldn't be so sad about a bum leg. I asked why and he said that, if they couldn't patch me up once we got back inside, he'd let me get a peg leg. Be a proper buccaneer, his words."

John smiled fondly for the man who wasn't able to do so during this story anymore.

"I had never been so happy and I forgot all about my ankle. It was wonderful John, a mind just forgetting something hurt because something else felt better. A great number of years passed before I genuinely found that feeling again."

There was what felt like a thoughtful pause then.

"His name was Siger. He left two weeks later. Took three suitcases and one of the cars. Mycroft had known him longer of course and refused to come downstairs to say goodbye. I believe he regrets this but it's another question I've never sought the answer to. I saw my father off though. The last thing he said to me was that it was okay for a pirate to play it safe every once in a while, for the sake of his crew. That sometimes caring about them more than you wanted to have a good old fashioned sword fight was the braver thing to do. He said to not let anyone in that house stop me from being brave, even if it meant a mutiny," Sherlock said in that soft way that John was beginning to think was how the detective sounded when he was hurt.

"He was the first person who thought I was more than just my brain. I think you would have liked him John. He started what I believe you finished. You ought to know how the good started too. Even if you no longer believe it mattered, I owe you that much."

John wanted desperately for the good to have mattered enough for Sherlock to have stayed.

"I can see you coming through my violin window, I've got to go John,"

The doctor waited for the message to cut off but that static mixed with old city noise kept playing.

"Do you think I would have disappointed him John? I think that some nights. Until next time then."

_Click_

**Authors Note:Reviews/comments are always welcome, I'd love to know what you think! Should have another update shortly and my other story was updated last night, should you be interested in that.**


	4. The Waiting

**Authors Note:Hopefully you enjoy this chapter, I just may be posting another one sometime today (or starting another new story, haven't decided, im so changeable)**

"I do hate wasting a perfectly good Sunday like this my dearest John."

"Doing what Sherlock?," _as if you've got any right to complain_.

"I haven't the faintest idea why Lestrade still thinks he needs these 'offical' statements from us. Procedure, terribly dull don't you think?"

John almost smiled and god, if that wasn't the saddest thing. Hearing Sherlock complaining about paperwork was something he missed. Maybe this was rock bottom, how could things get worse than insanity?

"You insisted I take a walk while you go over your statement, I went to the Yard's break room. Hope that's okay, I just want to be here the second you finish. Your face every time you think I've just appeared out of thin air is too hysterical to be resisted. It's your fault, if you'd stop pretending you think my deductions on the new officers were inappropriate I wouldn't have to sneak around so often."

"Your being bored doesn't mea-"

"Of course it means I've got to do it John, can't let my mind be idle. Look what you've got me doing now even, talking to a phone just in case you ever listen. Perhaps Donovan's right, maybe I am crazy. Should have gone on that walk I suppose, but no matter. I've many things to tell you, so let's get on with it, shall we?"

It was hard to say whether John was eager to hear what came next, or dreading it more than the second surgery on his shoulder after the war. Always a real toss up when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

"Since I've done the others, I thought today might be a good day to tell you about… the difficult relationship between my brother and I. I do realize Mycroft makes for poor subject matter but as always I'm merely guessing at what parts of my life you'd like to know about. Setting the scene, if you will. Again, if the topic is no longer of concern to you feel free to skip ahead. Should you choose to, I would not hold a grudge if I were still capable of such a thing where ever you are."

The good doctor simply waited for the detective to continue, patient in his resolve to hear every word.

"I can't decide if you'll think my waiting for you to decide is funny or not. Will you think it ridiculous? Or justified? Again John, if only I could ask."

_You should have_ he thought bitterly.

"Mycroft, do stay on topic today. As I said before, he's seven years my senior. It feels like more but that must be because of how insufferable he is. Has a way of making you think he's always been around, sitting in that minor position in the British government. Makes me feel like I've known him for at least a hundred years, give or take a decade. I actually only lived with him for seven years, consciously for four. We were close, for a time. I can barely remember it, which is saying something isn't it John? It almost feels as if I've made it all up. Do you want to know what I've got for proof? That tiny scar, above my right eyebrow, that you asked me about when you were tending to that black eye I had. I confess to the lie I told, the one about a knife fight with an Italian mob boss. It's from when I fell out of the tree in our front lawn. I wasn't a clumsy child, if that's what you were thinking. It's proof that I'm not making this all up because I only fell after Mycroft accidentally knocked me over with one of the pieces of plywood we'd been using to build a tree house."

There was no stopping the laugh that was ripped from the shorter man's throat.

"It is a ridiculous mental image, isn't it? The two of us in a tree. I believe I tried convincing him we should turn it into a private laboratory, if that helps. What I'm trying to say in that laboured way I think you appreciate judging by the blog, is that we were close until the events with my father took place. Mycroft would have been eleven, and he's been more or less the same ever since. I couldn't understand why he was being so distant at first; I was busy labouring under the delusion that it was only a matter of time before Father came back. Then the fall out between him and Mummy made everything rather obvious. Mycroft resented us, Mummy for what she'd always been and me for what I assume he saw I was becoming. He wanted out and again I think I can understand this. When he left for boarding school at fourteen, however, I was less than agreeable."

"I can't even picture what you think less than agreeable is Sherlock," John admitted with a shake of his head, the sad smile still plastered on his face.

"It would be accurate to say I resented him for leaving. For a multitude of reasons I assure you John, but will you please give me the benefit of the doubt when I say I'd rather not get into those right now. Later, my dear doctor. All that is important for you to know at the moment is that I resented Mycroft for leaving and he held a grudge for the life he believed I played a role in taking from him. Looking back now, I…I should have let my anger go. But you know how hard that is for me, admitting I've been wrong. And things had only gotten… worse in the years since he'd left so I never reached out to my brother. I would like to apologize for that, but this is Mycroft. I suspect he already knows," Sherlock told him, though the distant voice on the phone did not sound as sure as the words it was speaking.

"Can I tell you a secret John? I mean, I know I've sort of been doing that already but can I tell you another? I'll have to assume you said yes, you are a saying yes sort of person John. I was waiting for Mycroft to come back, but that's not the secret. For years, I was waiting. Because isn't that what Mycroft does? He walks in like a giant wanker and sorts everything out. I knew that when I was seven so waiting seemed like a good idea. You must understand that waiting for Mycroft to show up had worked every other time, regardless of whether I asked it of him. He has shown up every time since as well. But he never came back to that house, not once. My brother would even send me Christmas cards while I was at home not even celebrating the holiday because Mummy said there was no reason as I didn't believe in Santa and we weren't religious. I couldn't figure it out, why waiting for my big brother wasn't working. Not for a long while. By the time I knew he just wasn't going to come, it no longer mattered in the grand scheme of things. I suppose you could say the damage had been done by then. I'd still like to have an answer to that question though. I don't suspect I'll get it, not before you receive this by any means."

"What question?," the doctor asked in his own hesitant quiet voice, as if his tongue were copying Sherlock's.

"Why then, John. That's what I'd like to know. I know he has his reasons but why did Mycroft pick then to turn a blind eye to me? Mycroft handles the messes he always has but he never came. I know he's spent the better part of two decades trying to atone for that fact. I wish he wouldn't…"

"The secret, my dear doctor, is that I am glad now that he wasn't there. I don't think I've ever been gladder for anything in my entire life, save for possibly you limping into that lab. I don't know if being glad makes me a good person or a bad person. Maybe you can tell me later, once I've worked up the courage to fill in the gaps of my story John."

_You were always a good person, you idiot_.

"He never came and that is okay, but I think I will spend what time I have left before you hear this wondering why. Why couldn't he have come and meddled? Was I no longer worth the effort? Is there an answer for why I was left behind? I'm not sure, and I'm not sure I want to know it if there is."

There was an awkwardly long pause in the recording there.

"Is that how I've made you feel John? I can't… I can't make that feeling go away with an apology but I am sorry none the less."

"I think I hate you for being sorry," John muttered to himself.

"I must leave this here though, I think Lestrade's office door just unlocked down the hall and that's my cue. It is a lovely day here John, bright and sunny and so very un-London. You've been in a good mood all morning; I think I'll take you to Angelo's later. I do hope it is lovely where you are now and if it is, take a break from listening since I imagine you haven't stopped once if you've got this far and go on that walk for me. I do not want to be responsible for ruining another of your good days, I fear I've done that far too many times as it is. You ought to have nothing but lovely days John. Until next time."

John was left with blurry eyes and had his hands over his face when he heard the familiar

_Click_

**Authors Note:Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think!**


	5. The Girl

**Authors Note:Thank you for all the support, it's been wonderful! Enjoy the chapter!**

John considered Sherlock's advice. He really did, honest. Which made him question his sanity once again because here he was taking orders from a deadman. What Sherlock asked of him though, John had always done. So he grudgingly pulled on his coat and headed out the door, phone carefully placed in his pocket. It was an aimless walk on a not so perfect day as the one a certain consulting detective would have wished for but it did feel good to get out of the flat for a bit. Not that John went far, he merely circled around their old neighbourhood, trying not to think of which roof tops they'd jumped off of and he definitely didn't linger in front of Angelo's wondering if Sherlock had made good on his suggestion of an actual meal on that last message. Mostly John stared at his feet as if the fate of the world depended on it and was almost surprised to find himself stumbling across the grass of Regents Park. Almost surprised but then again it had been a place they use to come to often. If Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat too long, John would suggest a leisurely stroll and a healthy dose of fresh air. The detective had almost always agreed, which the shorter man had found suspicious at first but stopped questioning over time. Perhaps Sherlock had just liked it here, as he had liked most places he deemed 'properly London'. Looking around now, John wasn't sure if he'd actually enjoyed the place as much as he used to think or if it had just been the company which kept the good doctor coming back.

Either way, there was no company now and that thought made John's leg suddenly ache until he could sit on the nearest bench. It was one close to the water and John smiled at the ghost of a memory of a rant on nitrogen levels and aquatic life he'd once heard in this very spot. It was too much temptation and the urge to pull out the sleek phone hidden in his jacket pocket could not be stopped. This was as good a place as any to hear from his friend and John liked the idea of pleasing Sherlock with his having taken a walk even if the brunette wasn't actually around to congratulate him on blending in with society so well.

"I'm beginning to think you made this look easier than it is," that beautiful, wonderful, _gone_ voice told him.

That left John momentarily speechless as he couldn't recall as single moment when he'd known Sherlock when the detective hadn't mastered any task put in front of him. At the very least the taller man had feigned complete competence at all times, regardless of the situation. Not once had John bested the detective at anything. Not even the morning crossword.

"Even now, I bet you actually took that walk just to prove that you could. You are always so impressive John. And here I am, unable to give you full truths. It is disappointing, just being ordinary Sherlock. Are you disappointed in me John?

_Yes, and no_

"I apologize again because I am not like you, my dear doctor. I am not brave. Past, present, and where you are future. This being brave lark, the kindest word for stupidity isn't that right John? I've thought many times while recording these that if you knew what I was doing it would make things easier. You would be so encouraging, telling me to get everything out there. Off my chest. You always wanted me to show more emotion than I would have deemed myself capable of. A valiant effort on your part, and I am trying. I'm recording this one at the park, in my favourite spot. I hope I was correct in thinking this would be where you would come if I told you to spend some time outdoors. I hope for that very much, it makes me feel like you're sitting with me now just a tiny bit."

John couldn't help but agree that knowing Sherlock had been in the same place as he was right now made John feel like the last three years were nothing but a bad dream for a moment.

"Since it feels like you are here that tiny bit, I will be a tiny bit brave and say that I wish to tell you the story of Caroline St. James. She was a girl I met when I was ten. Caroline had blonde hair, light blue eyes and just the right sort of nose. That's what got me at first, the nose. Isn't that ridiculous? To think someone's wonderful because they have the sort of nose people pay for. I introduced myself to her and her lovely nose, and do you know what happened? For the first time in my life I wanted to know a complete strange in their entirety. I wanted to know Caroline cover to cover, not just what I could deduce offhand. Because I said hello, has anyone told you that your nasal bone is delightful. Then she took one look at me and said that's a very interesting set of bruises on your arm, can I have a look. She was the first person who saw me John, do you understand that? She was the first person who saw, really saw- actually observed. Like all the damage was written across myself, plain as day. As if I'd whispered it in her ear. Like there were scars she could see. I almost couldn't believe it."

The good doctor couldn't decide if what this Caroline had noticed about Sherlock made him uneasy or not, perhaps it was some fraction of his old military training that sent up a red flag in John's mind. A look out, danger ahead, IED buried in the road.

"I wanted to know her terribly John, in much the same way as I wanted to know you as soon as I asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq' and you didn't instantly run out of the lab. There is a difference between yourself and Caroline though, no need to be jealous. I was never actually friends with Caroline," the detective confessed in an almost wistful tone and John was forced to reassess whether Sherlock had been right in calling him jealous.

"In fact, the conversation I've just told you about was the only one we ever had. What she saw…what she knew about me John, it was still mine then. A burden I could bare so long as no one knew. I had secrets even then, dear doctor. I couldn't have this girl knowing them, knowing my weaknesses. I had to protect myself from her and protect her from myself. Because I was dangerous back then, but not in the exciting way, like with you and crime scenes. Perhaps that was what set me down the path to you. To not having friends, to just having the one. "

John fancied he could actually _feel_ Sherlock thinking about this point over the phone, even then.

"I still think about her sometimes, if a girl in one of our cases resembles her for instance. I wonder what she's like now, what she was like then. I never got the chance to know, that was just the way it was," Sherlock finally said with a soft sigh.

"It doesn't do to dwell on a life full of friends that I'll never have. That is not the life I regret not having the most any way. The life I must not be having with you where you are, that will be my biggest regret John. That is the truth indeed, but I need you to know that losing that first life hurt too."

That was the moment John decided there was no getting use to the honesty in Sherlock's voice.

_Why couldn't you have let me know it hurt? Why, why, why? _

"Have you worked out my secret yet?" the detective whispered through the recording, voice barely carrying enough to be heard by the good doctor.

"I want it to be something else," John surprised himself by saying, but realized this was true the moment the words had passed his lips.

"I am hoping you are clever enough, my dear John. I am not brave; I only get a tiny bit of the stuff from you so I'm not sure I can say it. Even like this, on a phone to you from wherever I've gone."

"It's the bruises, isn't it Sherlock?," John whispered back to a madman who could never actually hear the question.

"Haven't I already said? I was not a clumsy child John."

John felt his throat constrict.

"I feel I need to stop here, for now John. Even in my favourite spot in the park pretending you are beside me, here is where I'd like to stop. Again, the benefit of the doubt is what I ask of you. Until next time, my dear dear doctor…"

_Click_

**Authors Note: **

Did you like the ordinary Sherlock reference? I couldn't help myself! Until next time my loves, as always reviews/comments are adored! 


	6. The Poison

**Authors Note:Another update, look at us go! Thanks to all who've reviewed/commented, you are all lovely!**

John received many stares.

That was all the doctor could say happened for certain on his way back to the flat. Dazed didn't sound like the right word. Baffled, confounded, stupefied. Closer but apparently his vocabulary lacked whatever jumble of letters were needed to perfectly describe the feeling that had washed over the good doctor as soon as the playback stopped. Then John hated Sherlock again for a brief moment because he knew, he _knew_ the same way he knew which planets revolved around which, that the detective would have been able to tell him the answer. Would have given him that look that said _tut tut John, surely you've figured it out by now_ and John would laugh because if he didn't he'd punch that smug look right off that beautiful face. The thought of that now caused that strange sting to build behind his eyelids again.

It must have looked like a drunken stumble back to his front door to anyone who wasn't subjecting themselves to Sherlock Holmes beyond the grave. That must have been why John remembered the stares when he couldn't remember how his key had gotten into the lock or who had turned the kettle on. It didn't bother the doctor that people stared; they always had for different reasons. Look at the brave soldier, look at the poor ex-soldier, look at the new guy following Sherlock Holmes like a duckling, look at the poor guy who's still following Sherlock Holmes like a duckling, and look at the poor guy Sherlock Holmes left behind.

Stares. Yes. John knew them.

Steam started to billow out of the kettle and it reminded John of Sherlock, who left him just like that. Steam out of a kettle. The floor of the flat creaked as John carried his mug to his chair- smashing the silence and it reminded John of Sherlock, who left him just like that. Silence. The armchair the doctor sank into stared at an empty one and it reminded John of Sherlock, who left him just like that. Empty.

He let out an angry sigh.

"What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked the steam, and the silence, and the chair and the detective. All of whom did not answer.

"Why tell me at all? Am I supposed to live with missing all the signs Sherlock?" John pressed, glaring at what he didn't know.

He took an angry sip of tea.

"What is the point of answers now?" was questioned much more softly, by an ex-army doctor slash ex- consulting detective assistant who simply needed to know.

And maybe that was the only answer he was going to get. Because John simply needed to know. It didn't seem fair, but not seeming fair seemed like something Sherlock would do.

John pressed with angry force at the _Next_ button on the phone.

"I know a great deal about poisons John." Sherlock started and John wondered if his anger was disappearing, or consuming him entirely until he couldn't tell the difference.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I know it seems trivial, I know a great deal about many things and you know that I know a great deal about many things. But poisons are interesting, are they not John?" the voice questioned and the doctor found himself reluctantly agreeing.

"You see, poisons are special. Unique, if you will. Everyone always thinks of poisons as entirely bad, fullstop. Then again, you know my feelings on the opinion of 'everyone'. It is true that many poisons are deadly and terrible and I'm sure you would protest my bringing any of them into the flat for experimentation. I might do any way, but I think you would miss the elegance of what I am trying to say without my little backstory. They are deadly and that is a fact. But it is not all the facts. Which is what makes poisons so interesting."

John frowned at the way Sherlock's praise of _interesting_ made his heart flutter that tiny bit. He was enraged, it wouldn't do to forget that.

"The thing about poisons is that it isn't always a matter of which is most deadly. You can be deadly without ever appearing to be. Isn't that neat? My favourite poison, and yes John I have a favourite do shut up I'm making a point, is arsenic. Classic, simply, beautiful. A slow build up to deadly if one wishes for it to be so."

The detective took several long breathes there, as if relishing these facts.

"I fear you no longer wish me to breach the subject, and perhaps that is why it can't be avoided any longer. I'm going to tell you about Mummy some more. "

The doctor couldn't help but cringe.

"She is rather like arsenic John. Isn't that neat too? I first thought that when I was twelve. It's been one of my most brilliant thoughts ever since. She and element 33, one and the same. A little mad to think but you'll forgive me I'm sure, that's the way my brain works I suppose."

_An understatement, possibly of the century Sherlock_

"She's rather like poison in many ways, like it's in every one of her pores," Sherlock continued without sensing John's thoughts.

"Her hands were like poison, John. Contaminating. They left bruises when I was too emotional. They slapped when I got too smart. Imagine, if you will, how often that happened."

An unusual pause occurred in what John had believed would be a typical long Sherlockian thought.

"They were poison and arsenic when she was pleased with me too, but there weren't any marks from when she was pleased that I can tell you about" the detective confessed in that uncomfortable is-that-really-Sherlock voice

" I know I said I'm rather like her and this is still what I believe to be true. I know I am not her, not entirely. But I am rather like her- a slow build up to deadly too."

John wanted to argue that to his last breath and wasn't that something? It wasn't as if, in a way, Sherlock's words had been wrong. If anything, they were too right.

"I know you think I'm persuasive, look what I've got you doing right now but I'm nothing compared to her. Words are a poison all their own, aren't they John? Her words are toxic, worse even. Lethal perhaps but I know you don't want to hear me talk that way. I might not insult arsenic with the comparison. Maybe more like maggots digging into your frontal lobe. There's no escaping them. They are just there, eating you up from the inside. Parasitic. Her words were harder to endure. They cut in unexpected ways."

It was almost impossible for the doctor to conjure up what phrases might affect the world's only consulting detective so.

"Sherlock, honey, no one else understands," the detective started is a sugar sweet sounding whisper that somehow felt more harsh than understanding. John realized it was probably an impression of his mother.

"Sherlock, no one else is good enough for brilliant you. Sherlock, haven't I given you everything? Sherlock, let me teach you just like last time. Sherlock, aren't you happy? Sherlock, smile for Mummy or she'll make you smile," the brunette ended up screeching into the phone as the pace of his words quickened, sounding less like an impression and more like the ragged voice of the impressionist. It broke one of the already shattered pieces of John's long forgotten heart.

"Sherlock, no one will want you now… Sherlock, you're just a freak…Sherlock, you're mine did you forget?" was what the recording echoed into the flat in the collected whisper again, though it was followed by Sherlock's laboured sounding breathing.

_I would have done something, anything, if I'd only known before_.

"They slipped in John, like concrete filling me up until I couldn't move. I know it is illogical, in my mind I know that what she said was nothing but syllables and letters. That it should not matter but I've found it does none the less. Do you know why John? Do you know why I can't delete them like I did the solar system? Why they leak from the walls of my mind palace like sewage water? Why do her words haunt me as much as the ghosts of her finger nails?" the detective asked, desperately, through the phone.

John couldn't think of a reasonable answer, certain not one that could get past the knot of anger and endless sadness that was lodged in his throat.

"I wish I could hear you now John…I wish I could have you smile at me the way you do. I wish I could know if this is okay, if you are still listening even if it's too much for you too."

The doctor may have never agreed with a thought more in his life. He wanted terribly to hold on to Sherlock purely to comfort the man who kept so much at bay.

"It is an impossible wish however, my dear doctor. You could not hear this if I were still able to seek those things out. Where I am, you are sleeping on the couch and I can't get out of bed now to wake you without causing you alarm. It is comforting though, having you near at the moment at least. I suppose I am sorry again for no longer existing to provide the same service for you John," Sherlock said in a sincerely sad way that the good doctor could not shake off as some polite gesture from a deadman. The idea that Sherlock wanted to be there, if even for a few moments, helped a bit.

"I don't think I'll speak of Mummy again, if it can be helped. I hope this is okay with you John, I haven't any courage left over to be more blunt about my time in my childhood home. I left when I was fourteen, just as Mycroft had but different in many ways. I suppose some of those ways may become messages to you later," the taller man told him thoughtfully before taking another pause that seemed to intensify the quiet John was always surrounded by now.

"Mummy and arsenic. I still think it's a brilliant thought even if you're the only one I ever tell, my lovely John. I need to end this though, I'll give you time to rest and feel you're way through what you think you must. If you'll indulge me, I'd like to leave you with one more secret. That is that I'm afraid that I'm made of element 33 too, that I'll leave just as much damage once I'm done existing. It is a terrifying thing, good doctor. I do not want to be the one haunting you as she does me. If this is the case, I feel the need to once again ask you to stop listening here. I don't know for certain how much I'll have harmed you but you've got enough ghosts to be getting on with my dear John. I give you permission to let me go, if it is easier. However if you should continue with that loyal to a fault business, then this is only goodbye for now- until next time."

_Click_

**Authors Note: Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think!**


	7. The Boy

**Authors Note: Another update for you my darlings! Please enjoy, I should be back again with more shortly!**

John Hamish Watson was a soldier. Active duty or not, everything about him was made of soldier. Not just his hair or his stance, the way he apparently carried himself. Everything was soldier. The particles that made up a single one of his eyelashes knew to stand at attention for Queen and country. John Hamish Watson had seen the battlefield, had almost died on the battlefield, had come back to London and entered a different kind of battlefield. Once upon a time John Hamish Watson had gone so far as to miss it.

When the sound of recorded static died out, the molecules of soldier in him tried to stand up. The trained atoms in the left hand of a military man tried to throw the phone just like a grenade at the smiley face on the wall. The army etched into the fibre of John wanted desperately to distance itself from the wreckage of Sherlock Holmes.

The attempts by the molecules, the atoms, and the fibres were not successful.

Because military molecules couldn't make him stand up, the pain in his leg was too sharp. The conditioned atoms could not find the strength to throw, the tremors in John's fingers were only seconds apart now. John had never been an army doctor who could put himself back together again. The fibres of John never stood a chance of escaping the wreckage. The good doctor was already a part of it, woven into the fabric.

The only thing he was successful at doing was accidentally knocking his half full, entirely cold cup of tea to the ground. Looking down at the shards of broken ceramic, John questioned whether breaking a cup should be considered a success. Looking down at the shards of broken ceramic, he did not allow himself to think of Sherlock.

John didn't want to think of anything. Why was he the one who had to sort out all that the world's only consulting detective had deemed the rest of the human population unworthy of hearing. Why was he the one who had to hurt, had to ache. Why was he the one who had to feel the phantom pain of a carefree child the world had missed?

It made him tired all over and John didn't want to think of anything. At some point, feeling tired all over slipped into actual sleep. Or as close to sleep as John ever got these days.

He did not wake feeling any better. There was still a lead weight pressing below his sternum. John did not have the energy to lie and say it was just pain from sleeping in an arm chair. For a moment he fancied it was whiplash, his mind reeling from being pulled into the past too often and too abruptly.

It wasn't true either but he was sick of the truth. Looking at the hard plastic shell that contained so much beautiful baritone, John was sick of the truth that the phone held all that was left of that sound in the whole world. The thought made him feel nauseous. Stroking a shaking finger over the blank screen, John was sick of the truth that having Sherlock in this worst of worst ways still felt better than not having him at all. The doctor was quick to press play on the next message before his mind could ask him whether this was the only way he'd ever truly had Sherlock in the first place.

"I'm waiting on the report for a blood sample today my dear doctor. Important case. You've gone for some fresh air and I think it is likely you will stop at that new cafe for coffees. True, you don't often splurge but I know you hate the hospital stuff and you will justify it as a treat for me. I'll be okay with that John, especially since it gives me time for this."

Relief and hurt at the same time,_ the effects of words _he mused.

"If you are hearing this then I must thank you John. It cannot be easy, this seeing the worst of me. I would offer that I do not enjoy being the storyteller but I suspect you won't find any comfort in that fact. Instead, I'd like to offer you an alternative. I wish to tell you about Victor Trevor.

John felt quite justified in having his doubts.

"I was sixteen when I met him. I know I said I left for school at fourteen but there is nothing of note in those two years. I was simply an outcast; I had come pre-packaged with freak for a label and the other students made use of this. Victor knew about all that, I believe, and he said nothing at all on the matter. All that young boy did was smile at me, incessantly, for thirteen days until I finally snapped. I demanded to know straight away why he was doing it because that was, and quite frankly is, not what usually happens."

John could feel his face move to almost smile at the memory of what people usually do. Did. He was having some trouble with tenses lately.

"Victor just did it again, the smiling that is, and said seeing me every day must just make him happy. I spent the next thirteen minutes, I was young and the sentiment seemed clever at the time, kissing him like a dying man gasps for air."

There was a long pause on both ends of the phone connecting the two worlds. Sherlock seemed to have the good grace to give John a moment to try to align this picture with the one of the detective already established in the doctor's mind. Again, John was met with a failure to compute error.

"I assume you've thought I had never bothered with relationships, given the lack of friends and...well the events I've already described. As ever with me, there was just the one. Victor Trevor was an anomaly. He didn't really see me but that was okay because I didn't feel ready to be really seen yet. I am showing you now John and I still have half a mind to destroy this phone before I stop existing. What I believe Victor wanted was to save me from my demons. He wanted to face those demons without even knowing who they were. As if bad things can be erased by good things, sprained ankles and peg legs again. And I...wanted very badly for what he would say to be true. Badly enough, in fact, that I waited a whole year to end it."

The speechlessness continued at the thought of Sherlock both being in a relationship and ending one that had gone sour.

"I had him for a whole year but those first thirteen minutes were the only ones I was sure I wanted. There...were days when I would not let him look at me because his smart eyes felt too much like hers. Weeks when he wasn't to touch me because his touches were her touches and those always hurt somehow," the detective confessed in that distant far off voice that seemed to be trying to run away from the conservation.

"It was illogical. I was damaged goods John, full of cement and sewage water. Perhaps I still am. I was not enough then though. That was something I had to figure out, a fun little puzzle. Why does Victor not smile as much anymore? Why does he not even try to hold my hand anymore? Why do his eyes look so tired, they never look clever anymore? Do you see the pattern John? It took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out. Foolish of me. Anymore, anymore, anymore. I'd already thought the word a thousand times. Those were things I changed about him, things I took away when I had nothing to give in return. I could see what being close to me did to people. It is why element 33 scares me still," Sherlock said and it was that moment when John's brain remembered that it couldn't blame Sherlock for secrets the brunette hadn't created himself.

"I was hurting him John. Me, just me. I was hurting him every time I jumped if he came too close by accident. I was hurting him every time I stopped the kissing because I thought I would be sick. I was hurting him because I was not loving him. Not once, my dear doctor. Not even for a moment. I wanted to try but I kept thinking that it was too dangerous, the bad kind again. People who love are looking for something. I couldn't afford to love and if possible it made me even less worthy of the love he always said he had for me. I was not enough, not for him or maybe anyone," was whispered to the good doctor, making the words difficult to both hear and feel.

"It was not an option, this hurting Victor. I have told you already that I know I am not her entirely, only a few bits and pieces. What I must confess is I could not stand for that part of Mummy to have been made mine as well."

"Which part Sherlock?" the doctor asked, helpless to stop the urge.

"Harming the ones you were meant to care for. It made my skin crawl. I told Victor the truth, that I had tried to care but did not so I no longer wished to see him. Is it a fair assumption that you would have scolded me for not having been kinder?"

_Yes, and no_

"No matter, it is not an error I can fix now. If you are listening from that impossible future, I'm sure you agree with that sentiment." And John did but it didn't help to acknowledge it.

"After Victor, I forced myself to learn distance. It was only fair to not get involved again. Did I get very good at it John? That nonchalant, cold indifference- the mask? Was it a good act? Did you almost start to wonder if it was real? Did I nearly get you? No, perhaps not you John but I haven't the faintest idea as to why," the baritone admitted.

John did not feel good about being the exception.

"I learned to be alone, my good doctor. It was crucial. If I couldn't face those ghosts myself then being alone was all I had to protect everyone else from them."

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me_ the same voice said in John's head, a memory from the day the doctor wanted no memories of.

"It was a bit not good John… Every action has an equal reaction. I've wondered if it was the right thing, if it would have been what you'd have done in my position John. You have always been stronger and maybe if I'd been like you I'd have got to keep that life as well. But we both know I am not and I didn't get to, it was the second possible life I'd lost so far. Still, the last life will always have been the hardest. You must believe that. Perhaps I will get the chance to tell you what losing that last life meant later. Losing is the wrong word, giving up must be more accurate if you can hear me. What I am struggling to say John is that being alone such as I was is not an easy thing."

"Of course it's not, people aren't meant to be ,you idiot," the good doctor replied sadly to no one really.

"You know my mind, how it gets when left to its own devices. It's a million thoughts at once, deducing each memory into confetti. It hurts. Alone my mind swam in her sewage, bashed against the concrete. You must remember this, it is important for much of the rest of my story. At least until we get to the good part, and I promise there is one. When you hear from me next, you must bear that thought in mind. I could separate myself for the sake of others, but I could never stop thinking about it. Not until the events that triggered this package making its way to you at least. "

John thought for a moment that he would have traded everything he'd ever owned in the entire world if it meant he would never have received the phone.

"Here you come down the stairs where I am John, I can smell the coffee. I'm sure you know the drill by now, my dear doctor. Until next time.

_Click_

**Authors Note:** **Let me know what you thought, I love the feedback!**


	8. The Fix

**Authors Note: This chapter is a tiny bit late, though I'm sure you'll forgive that I was busy finally seeing Star Trek ( which was amazing, obviously). Again, you'll be hearing from me soon!**

What did it say about you if you resented the living for interrupting the dead? John didn't know for certain but it couldn't have been anything good. He'd been sitting trying to piece together what Sherlock had told him, telling his brain to remember every fact like the detective had requested but also so that the doctor would not be forced to listen again for things missed. John Watson thought he'd missed enough things for one lifetime. That's what he'd been trying to do when a timid knock came at the door.

"Sorry dear, I know you don't much like to be bothered but Mycroft is at the door and after last time I thought it best to ask fi-"

"It's fine Mrs. Hudson, it's not as if he's going to leave without coming up," John tried to say patiently to the kind woman while only looking away from the silent phone for half a second as he spoke.

It was another decision that John Watson regretted having made.

"Hello John."

"What could you possibly want Mycroft?"

"Ah yes, good to see you as well. Indeed, it's been too long," the overly posh man said with a quirk of the lips that was as close to an expression as John had ever seen on those features.

The doctor was sure to glare pointedly enough that the politician knew to sit on the couch without argument to the contrary.

"Do I need to ask again?"

"Ask what?"

"What do you want, why are you here?"

"Because I know what he's given you,"

Of course he did, Mycroft knew everything. Had to be even easier to bug the place without a certain consulting detective fighting the surveillance efforts. Really John knew better than to expect a hint of privacy from a member of the Holmes' family. Mycroft had seemingly moved all of the security to John after Sherlock jumped. It drove the good doctor mad to feel like he was being minded at all times. The low burn of anger that flared at this thought served to remind him that the elder Holmes' brother was someone he would let himself be angry with. Nothing wrong with arguing with the living, though there is something a bit off about having to make such a distinction.

"It's none of your business," he growled out, surprising everyone in the room.

"What Sherlock wished to… discuss with you has always been my business," the other man replied evenly.

"Now, we both know that's not quite true Mycroft," John hissed back, he couldn't be bothered to care that it was a rather low blow. It was what Sherlock's brother deserved.

"I didn't know it was happening doctor, that is the plain truth. It was only ever the emotional abuse while I lived in that home and Sherlock seemed… unaffected by it. I will concede that it was a selfish act but I did not know that Mummy would ever make things…physical in nature."

"No, I reckon you'd have to be around to know those sort of things," it felt good to have someone properly around to be completely furious with.

Mycroft, polite and tact as ever, chose to remain silently staring back at John.

"Not once Mycroft, really? It never occurred to you that maybe your baby brother shouldn't be left alone with her? Come on, you're the smartest man in England. There must have been signs, signs that one day saying cruel things wouldn't do the trick anymore. You just let it happen," he accused harshly, jabbing a finger in the politician's direction with every word of his last sentence. John felt vindicated when Mycroft bloody Holmes winced.

"Yes John, I was entirely too late to save him. That is the truth I've lived with for twenty years."

"I think Sherlock forgave you, in the end. He said he was happy you weren't there, like he was protecting you from all of it. He was just a kid Mycroft, it shouldn't have been him," the doctor said with less venom but the same amount of utmost certainty. The silent _I wish it had been you_ hung in the air like a noose searching for a neck.

"Then you sold him out to that…that mad man, for what? Information, locations, crime rings? You used him over and over," John told the taller man with no amount of hidden disgust. "You're just like her, and he forgave you for it," he finished, eyes glaring at the man in the three piece suit.

"Have you ever found that forgiveness given when undeserved stings more than the disappointment could ever have?" Mycroft asked in that infuriating way which did not require an answer, only an acknowledgement that what he'd said had been true. The man did not seem fazed by the comparison John had made. Perhaps that thought had already entered that sharp mind. Taken some of the strength out of the impact.

"I hate you," the doctor stated confidently, meaning the words with all that remained of his heart. Here stood the man who had been the undoing of so much of Sherlock. The Iceman. John wanted desperately for Mycroft to feel even a fraction of what he did every god damn day.

"Then I applaud your sense of character because I hate myself too," again infuriating, again too calm.

The only consolation was that Mycroft finally stood to leave.

"I can see you aren't going to stop listening to the things my brother apparently wished for you to hear, there is no sense in subjecting you to my presence longer than necessary. Do remember I lost my brother that day too. I don't ask for my role in the matter to be forgotten, but I lost him too John. I understand that that is not an easy thing to endure."

John never found the words to reply, even long after the flat door had slipped quietly shut.

He found the idea of Mycroft understanding so casually left a bitter taste in his mouth. Of course asking him to stop listening to the world's only consulting detective was pointless. If that were even a remote possibility, John would have done it himself a long time ago.

"How did you do it? How did you look past all of this? What piece of logic am I missing?" he asked the vacated space somewhere over near the window where his imagination liked to put Sherlock.

No answer came from the man who wasn't standing there. John pressed _Next_ to fake a solution to that problem. It almost worked.

"Hello again my dear John. It has been quite some time since I've spoken with you."

John laughed because as usual the only alternative was to cry.

"You've left for that dreadful sounding medical conference in Dublin almost four hours ago and I hate the quiet. I never noticed it before you lived here but now it is on the verge of distracting," Sherlock told him in that solemn serious tone which had always had the opposite effect with John.

"I decided it might be time to visit the you I don't really know so that he may get to know a version of me he doesn't really know either. Of course, I'm aware you are far too kind to me and have undoubtedly given these messages a monstrous level of attention since receiving them. On my end of the line though, the last one you heard is five weeks old."

It felt like a punch straight to the gut to put even a little thought into how long the day on the roof had been planned for by the detective.

"Don't be upset with me John, I will admit I have been avoiding our conversations. It has never been easy to see you disappointed in me. And even if I am not there to observe it, I know this is what you will be once I continue. I'm selfish and cowardly, remember John? Even if it is improbable where you are, I wish for you not to think less of me. Even now, like this. When all I _need_ to do is say the words out loud and all I _want_ to do is take those words with me when I go."

John swallowed audibly, noting that hearing the detective casually mention his death for a few days had done nothing to soften the blow.

"How strange it is that now is when I hesitate most. I haven't any idea which of these messages you will deem the worst of me, but I feel it may be the ones that come next. They are my own actions this time, that is the difference my dear doctor. You can blame no one but me, which I fear allowing you to do. I have always been able to distance myself, divorce myself from feelings and all that. But as you know, my body betrays me. Fear. What does it mean when I am afraid of you John? What does wishing to spare you say about me?"

_I don't know Sherlock, I don't know…_

"That is okay, dear John. I can't expect answers from you, that is your position in all this. The quiet and I are ready to talk. Should you be available to listen, I'll tell you about my first cigarette."

That was not what the doctor had been expecting. Surely the brunette knew John no longer felt so strongly about the smoking habit. He would have allowed Sherlock three packs a day if it would have made him happy.

"I'd finished school and had the summer before Uni spread out before me. The very first day of break, I bought the pack at one of those 24 hour shops. They didn't question me, I suspect I was very good at being intimidating even then. It was two weeks before I tried one though. My experiments had made me forget about wanting to try the nicotine. Only after those ran out did I bother to recall that fact. I'm not sure I can adequately describe that first time John. It was like taking a fine tooth comb over my brain, brushing out all the tangles. Relief, soothing the constant burn of thoughts. I finished the pack in two days. The eagerness of youth perhaps. It was less than that by the time we met John, but for different reasons," Sherlock explained gently, which was unnerving.

"It was just the cigarettes for almost two years. Uni was good, for a while. The classes kept me occupied briefly, but they were all so basic. It was near the end of my second year that I sought out our dear friend Sebastian, you remember him correct? Of course you do, you hated him enough. Why was that John? Did he make you uncomfortable? No matter, that is how one should react in that man's presence. Survival instincts, yours are very keen my lovely John. That being said, I did exactly the opposite of avoid Seb."

John wanted to yell at Sherlock for stopping there, for pausing for any reason. The other man sounded so out of sorts and it pained the doctor to be able to do nothing.

"He was my dealer John…" the detective finally confessed. John's blood couldn't decide if it wanted to boil or freeze.

"The first one any way. You were there for that drugs bust and I know Mycroft made you search the flat. It is my sincerest hope that you belief me when I say I never used in the time we shared. From the start though, can't skip ahead. I tried most everything but my drug of choice was cocaine. I liked morphine, it is good for forgetting after all. But cocaine sharpened everything, got rid of the unnecessary bits and allowed me to focus."

"That's no excuse," the shorter man said bitterly.

"I know that John but you must understand that this was the first time I'd found any relief. Any at all. Any relief from the constantness of being myself. A rocket strapped to the launch pad, remember? I craved it John, I could feel the moment it started slipping out of my blood stream. You are a good man, a good soldier and a damn good doctor. I do not need to ask if you have ever tried anything like it, I know the answer to at least that question. Even with the Watson family curse, one only needs look at your sister or father to know you wouldn't allow yourself to become them. You, my dear dear John, are better. You do not need that chemical rush to feel intact, to feel marginally human. You're better, so much more than I can hope to be in the time I have left. Because you are your own salvation John, and I am just another addict."

_You can't think that, you can't!_ the doctor's mind screamed.

" I do not know the exact day that my habit stopped being about forgetting or feeling better. The day when I needed it to feel at all is a mystery to me. It snuck up on me, the need. That itching, aching, driving sensation. Always the addict John. There are many years of this and I can't bring myself to subject you to them all. I know I said I wouldn't keep anything from you John, but I think you will be okay with just the important can pause here though, for now. Make a brew, perhaps I will as well if you caved on cleaning that experiment out of the kettle before you left. I will tell you more than I care to when you again hear from me. Until next time."

_Click_

**Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed, reviews and comments are loved like crime scenes! Also, I don't think I can go a chapter without referencing at least one line from the show and I hope you spot them!**


	9. The First

**Authors Note: So sorry for not updating yesterday my lovely loves! I ended up working a double shift and there was no time to give the chapter justice when I got home at 4 in the morning. I will try and update again tomorrow, but that might be a little late depending on how long the next chapter in my other story takes to finish (so much technical case details to remember urgh). Please enjoy this part of the story though!**

That could not be the end of a message. John thought maybe he was being ridiculous for a moment but that quickly shifted back to _you can't do this to me Sherlock_ mode. The detective had always been so secretive about his drug use. Greg had told the doctor that there would be no stopping Sherlock Holmes if he wanted to get high because the brunette functioned so well that it was impossible to tell until it was too late. Still, John had always stupidly held on to the hope that it had been a small slip up in the detectives life. That Lestrade and Mycroft had just been overly cautious.

Now, by Sherlock's own admission, John knew this wasn't the case. That the destruction had been done over the span of years. The doctor was now forced to face the fact that he had only ever gotten the chance to know his best friend by sheer dumb luck. The devastation of Sherlock Holmes had started long before John Hamish Watson appeared. He'd only come in time to see the final act.

It was not fair or alright or fine. How could Sherlock do that? How could he be the one to cause the harm? Could the detective not see how precious, how utterly unique and irreplaceable he was? John wanted to yell, shout, scream. He wanted to curse his friend for not seeing how much the world, and one army doctor in particular, needed the other man. For not seeing that he was as necessary to John as breathing. He wanted to curse his friend for not seeing that John Watson still very much needed for Sherlock Holmes to exist.

And there was the heart of the matter. No longer existing. Who had given Sherlock the right?

_Why did you make me care if you were always going to leave anyway_ he thought while swallowing down the lump in his throat that John was reasonably sure was his stomach.

He refused to contemplate the thought that not needing permission to control the end of all things might have been what drew Sherlock to the idea in the first place.

He needed answers and the soldier in him was quick to turn to the only source of those John had left.

It almost felt as if his hand had acted carelessly, as if the limb had known all along that this was the conclusion the rest of the body would soon meet. This might have been true.

"Hello John, sweet caring lovely John. You have surprised me, if you are listening to this. It would have been wiser to let me go. Are you holding out for the good part I told you of? Is it guilt making you press that button? Tell me, how terribly do you think you need to know? I almost wish it were otherwise, that you no longer cared for my side of the story as they say. But you aren't the sort to give up are you John? One of the faults of being a saying yes person. Sometimes saying no is the smarter thing to do."

Half of John agreed, the other half demanded the detective tell him how exactly he was supposed to go about saying no.

"I suppose that is true doctor. No need to worry, I will continue to indulge you for the time being," Sherlock told him in that voice which the doctor imagined was the same one used by men waiting for a lethal injection. Defeat and acceptance in equal quantities.

"I know you have probably questioned by now why someone such as myself, someone who always strives to be above it all, could give all that up for the high."

_The thought has crossed my mind..._

"The truth is, John, that I'm not sure I've ever been above it all. I'm very good at faking control. Anyone can be anything if they pick the right disguise. There is something to be said for being lost when no one is looking to find you."

Hatred for the Holmes' brothers quickly switched to hatred for everyone, himself included, who had assumed Sherlock unmoved by the world.

"I've spent some time thinking about it and I can't recall a time when I was simply comfortable with myself. Isn't that what most people are? There's never been a reason to feel that way, I've always been different John and by the time chemicals were an option I was a proper freak. It felt like my skin didn't fit, like it was made a size too small. The world can be a suffocating thing when you haven't a place in it. I was dying to get out," Sherlock whispered and John's blood finally decided freezing was what it would do.

"I know you won't like me speaking like this John, so morbidly. But that is what I am. Morbid. It can't be helped I'm afraid."

Even John knew the airy tone was faked.

"I've thought about what dying might be like since I was twelve. Does that upset you as well? I imagine it does. Where I am, you still know more about dying than myself. You've seen plenty of it, more than enough. You've felt it too, haven't you my dear John?"

"You know I have," the ex-army doctor croaked back. "Obvious. You didn't have to think about it when I asked. Please God, let me live. Not your most imaginative moment but I suppose a bullet would hinder your creativity."

"Brillant deduction," and really John had missed the way the detective could piece together a picture.

"I want so badly to see the scar. On your left shoulder. I want to see what dying did to you John, see how it couldn't claim you. I bet that scar tells a wonderful story, much better than this one no doubt. Were you shot from behind? Were you crouched trying to save someone else and never saw the bullet coming? Or did you jump into it, pushing someone else out of the way, do no harm and all that. Such wonderful stories, scars. Shall we swap John? I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" the detective asked in what might have been a joking way had the man not sounded so manic. John focused on not being sick.

"You've felt what I'm talking about John, the dying. It's rather like trying not to fall asleep. I'll bet you remember that don't you? Feeling so exhausted, feeling so tired," was hissed through the phone like Sherlock meant for the words to slip straight into John's ear and eat away at his brain. "I know that feeling too John. Being unbelievably tired, bone tired, bone marrow tired. You fought it, didn't you? Out there in that desert, laying on the sand. You fought to keep the tired away because God help you, you wanted to live. The difference between us here is I didn't. For as long as I've thought about what dying might be like, I've welcomed the sleep. Once the drugs were done being for forgetting or soothing, once they were what I needed, they became about sleeping. I wish I could know if you'd understand this, if you'd ever forgive me for thinking I did not want to be there to meet you. If in your darkest hour at that tiny army flat, you might have felt a bit of what I did. I can't be sure and I'll never ask. What I would like to do instead is tell you about my first overdose. The first time I tried to leave you and another which I apologize for now."

It was irrational to accept an apology for something that had happened so long before John knew the other man. He accepted it any way.

"What I would like to clarify right away is that it was not planned.

_That's something at least._

"I want you to have that likely too small comfort when I tell you that while it wasn't planned, it was every bit intentional."

That would be the other shoe dropping, he supposed.

"I was preparing my regular dose of 7% solution when I just wanted to do more. Just like that John. It only took a second and then every bit of me needed more. More, more, more. There was never any panic, which surprised me then but I have never been a skittish person have I? It was just a fact, something I would be doing later the same way you plan on wasting time at Tesco."

John thought it could not be further from something as ordinary as the shopping. The earth's axis should have stopped spinning and alarms should have rung. Something to let the detective know what a massively stupid senseless idea that had been.

"Is that wrong of me? That the only thing about the day that I remember is that was a Tuesday. I don't know what else I had done that day, only that I didn't want to do it again on Wednesday. Does that make any sense?"

"God, not really Sherlock."

"I didn't have any clever last words, not like Jennifer Wilson. Certainly not any like yours. The only thing I thought of was being sure to use my phone to try and ring for an ambulance. Just to give Mycroft a bit of peace, I wanted him to think it accidental. Perhaps that is sentiment enough without words."

_Yes, and no._

"You already know how this part of the story ends though, how boring for you. I didn't die then, apparently I'd been less than successful in removing all of my dear brother's cameras from my old flat. He came with the med team, I thought that very funny when Mycroft told me later in hospital. Hysterical. He didn't understand the joke but do you John?" Sherlock asked in that achingly familiar curious voice.

The doctor tried desperately to find any humor in what the detective had said. Failure to compute all over again.

"That was when he made his grand rescue, that moment my dear doctor. Come at last to help his baby brother when I no longer wanted to be helped. Don't you see John? I had wanted for my brother to handle the mess as usual, to save me from that house all those years before. I admit I wanted him to save me from our mother. I thought that was who I needed protection from. But it was just me all along. Mummy never did as thorough a job as I had. As I must have succeeded in doing where you are."

There was no getting use to acknowledging Sherlock's death. Even after three years and hearing the brunette do it nonchalantly so many times.

"Does that make me worse than her? Does it mean you should hate me more? As ever, you are unknowable and unpredictable from where I am. I do hope you find the answer to that question for the both of us my dear John. Until next time.

_Click_

**Authors Note: Please let me know what you think! On a side note, has anyone worked out the meaning of the title yet? I'm curious whether the inspiration is obvious or not. Oh well, clever you should figure it out eventually!**


	10. The Second

**Authors Note:Gah so sorry for the delay again! I'm on day eight of nine in a row at work and I was completely dead yesterday. This chapter might be the longest so far though, if that helps. Apologies in advance for any spelling/grammar as well as I may or may not have written this on break at 5 this morning. All mistakes are my own I'm afraid.**

_Does that make me worse than her? Does it mean you should hate me more?..."_

The last few questions to crackle through the recorded static swam through John's mind. Swam like sharks looking for that drop of blood in the water, the hint of weakness in the ex-army doctor. Sherlock hadn't known. After all the time they'd lived together, the months which had turned into years, the brunette hadn't known. Couldn't take one look at John Hamish Watson and find the answers to those two questions.

It made John feel like a failure.

As the detective's best friend he should have done a better job of making sure Sherlock knew the answers to questions like that. Was he worse than his mother? The woman who had abused the detective in every imaginable way, all ways which made John's body do the opposite of tremble from how much rage that knowledge filled him with. Was it possible that is genius flatmate could believe himself to be worse than that? Worse than the woman who had harmed the most precious person in the doctor's life. Had been the most precious maybe. Present tense or past tense, three years later and he still wasn't sure if that had changed.

Which was a rather good indicator of the answer to the second question. It was one thing to suggest that John might think the drug habit and overdose was worse than, as Mycroft had put it, the physical aspects of what Sherlock's mother had done to the other man. It was one thing to suggest just that. That suggestion made John want to punch the wall or Anderson's face repeatedly until he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. But the idea, the whisper of a possibility, the thought about the thought of John Watson hating Sherlock Holmes was another level of wrong. It was almost incomprehensible.

Yes, hearing about Sherlock and overdoses hurt. Like a knife twisting around in circles in his gut. The idea that the brilliant, enigmatic, wonderful man might have died on the floor of some flat John had never been to was more painful than the doctor thought himself capable of describing. But he would admit that it was painful in such a way. Yes, he wished his best friend had never done drugs even if it was a means of escape because it was still a dumb idea and Sherlock was never meant to be dumb. Yes, he wished with every brain cell and heart muscle that Sherlock Holmes had not known a world were that endless sleep had offered so much relief to the detective.

Yes, John resented words like last and intentional.

But to hate Sherlock Holmes? The doctor couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around the concept.

Hate him after everything that had happened? All that John had seen?

_Keep your eyes fixed on me, please will you do this for me?_

He did as he was asked. John had watched, had listened to what Sherlock told him was his note.

_Leave a note when?_ he'd asked stupidly, unable to think over the visual on the roof and the broken sobs on the other end of the phone.

_Goodbye John..._

Weren't those the words that were often the last thing he heard before waking himself up at night from screaming? Weren't those the words that could be used to explain the state of the flat, the unemployment, John himself? Weren't those the words Sherlock had branded the doctor with?

And he should feel angry, shouldn't he? John had every right to hate the detective. For many reasons, not the least of which was for leaving him behind. For that, the name Sherlock Holmes should have been erased from John's memory just as the great man had been from the doctor's life.

But now? Now _Goodbye John.._ were the words he most feared hearing again. The ex-army doctor wasn't sure he could bear it. If that deep, posh, beautiful voice told him goodbye forever yet again. What did that say about him?

It said many things, to John at least. The first being that he should have never listened to these messages. They filled a dangerous empty space in John's heart, but only temporarily. Then that empty place would become a sinkhole again only there would be no comfort left from the dead to fill it with. The doctor had unknowingly allowed himself an emotional crutch.

The second thing the situation told John was that, at some point in three years, he had begun to associate Sherlock with the word beautiful. Hadn't that always been true though? It wasn't the dying that made the detective beautiful, that was just the tragedy that often accompanied beautiful things. Sherlock Holmes had just always been beautiful, the whole time he'd graced the Earth with his presence.

The sort of beautiful everyone admired from a distance though. John wondered sometimes whether the detective had known this, if the other man ever resented begin treated like the porcelain his skin appeared to be made of.

It was a confusing thing for the doctor to wonder about, because he was straight. Wasn't he?

Perhaps the doctor could admit to himself that there was a metaphorical chink in his heterosexual armor when it came to the detective. Perhaps he could admit to himself that that metaphor didn't really cover it. The brunette was the bullet that shot through the gaps in the Kevlar protection of _I'm not actually gay_.

Sherlock Holmes was the broken piece of shrapnel lodged in John Watson's shoulder that hurt every time it rained as if the old wound knew the taller man loved how London looked when the weather did that.

Mostly what the fear of those words told John was that he loved Sherlock more than he could ever hate him, even if it was too late to matter either way.

And yet. The lingering sense of failure wouldn't leave John alone. Had Sherlock known this when he was still capable of knowing things? Had he been able to deduce it from John's actions? Feelings weren't the detective's strong suit, they were complicated and difficult to sort out. Sherlock had always admitted, was still admitting even after dying, that he couldn't figure out how John felt about many things. All the other man had claimed to do on those messages so far was guess at what might go on through John's brain. If there was ever _something_ for the detective to miss, it would have been the doctor's feelings. It seemed unlikely that Sherlock had picked up on them when John hadn't fully realized the attraction himself.

The blonde felt another stab of self-hatred for having found one more thing he might have offered the world's only consulting detective if only the man agreed to come down off that ledge.

_It is a penance _his mind offers and the rest of John finds it agrees while hitting the same button on the familiar phone once again. For all the times he'd missed, John would not turn away from the detective now.

"John, John, John. Look at the pair of us, what are we? Foolish, yes I agree," Sherlock answered himself before the doctor got a chance to think on the question.

The Sherlock he was hearing now was very different from the other messages.

"You must forgive me John, I've been drinking just a touch though it is mostly your fault so really you must forgive me. You insisted I partake and you looked so thrilled when I said yes because the pub was so dreadfully boring. I mean really, not a single person worth deducing. Yourself excluded John, I would happily spend days trying to unravel every neuron in your brain if you weren't so stubbornly requiring them at the moment. No matter, the point here was that I have a rather hard time saying no to you when saying yes would make you much happier. Who could resist how content and smug you look all morning when I simply agree to toast. A colder man than I, which is rather something wouldn't you agree? Of course you would, obvious."

John briefly wondered if Sherlock was even aware he was recording this. But only briefly.

"I'm glad you haven't worked this out on your own yet John. I can't have you knowing the effect your happiness has on mine. I can't have you asking me to stay…" the taller man said softly, much more slowly than the rapid monologue he'd been subjecting John to before.

It made the doctor's heart contract painfully.

"I do not wish to discuss whether this would have made a difference. I can't say for sure. My not existing is… complicated John. Again, I can't say for sure if knowing you would be a shade happier could have changed that."

Sherlock was definitely the only person in the room (sort of, John amended) that didn't want to have that discussion.

"What I am afraid I must do instead is continue where we left off in our little story John. To set the scene for you, a terribly dull hospital room for a little while and then Mycroft's hideous living room sofa. I trust as a doctor I don't need to go into great detail about what withdrawals were like," the too calm voice asked through the phone.

At no point could John decide if he wanted great details or not.

"They are painful, that is about all that matters. Days without relief, even in sleep. Mycroft stayed with me, since it was he who demanded I get clean. His presence helped and after a few weeks I felt better. I suppose sometimes one forgets what feeling like their usual self is like until they've been out of sorts for a while. I was determined to make it work, I really was…" Sherlock confessed, somewhat sadly and the hairs on the back of John's neck stood up as if to scream _danger, you idiot_.

"Two months. That was all I managed. 61 days and I thought I was going to spontaneously combust, logic be damned. When Mycroft found out, he was…less than pleased with me. I was promptly cut off from the family money."

The was an unusual pause which made the doctor uncomfortable, as he couldn't find a reason for Sherlock to reminisce on his brother not supporting his drug use.

"It wasn't so bad, in the beginning. I had some money saved and I sold all of my things save for my clothes to pay for the drugs. Even after all that though, the funds ran out as quickly as you would probably expect. This was the start of my time spent living on the streets."

The unusual pauses continued here, though this one was probably granted by the detective as time for the doctor to pick his jaw up off the floor. It made sense in a way, knowing how Sherlock had made use of the 'homeless network' as the other man had put it. But it was still damn near impossible for his imagination to put impeccably dressed, public school Sherlock in amongst the crowd of men huddling around a trash can for warmth.

"I am not proud of what I had allowed myself to become John. As much as the cravings still linger on those bad days, I do not wish to go back to this state. It is an unpredictable way of life, again obvious. I spent a few months just drifting, it didn't matter much where I ended up sleeping as I still had the cocaine then. I became…more desperate after both the money and that ran out. I was four and a half months in at the time. Is it a bit not good that I remember more about this day than that last Tuesday I told you of? Again, can't be sure. I'd managed to find an open bed in a shelter the night before so I'd gotten to clean myself up a bit, which was always a small miracle as any member of the network will tell you. So, it started as a good day. I'd recently found a new corner to ask for change on when a man approached me asking what I was on. Homeless people get this a lot you understand so I ignored him at first. Until he asked if I wanted more of it," the baritone whispered and there was a loud swallow which John thought might have been Sherlock drinking _without_ the doctor as an excuse.

"I let him John. After Mummy, after Victor, after deciding I didn't want any more of that ever. I told him I'd do whatever he'd like for an eightball. I did it for less, he said my pretty mouth was only worth so much."

John's mouth went dry at the same time bile shot up into the back of his throat. He was suddenly filled with the compulsion to hit next before the message played out entirely but fought it down. This was part of what he felt duty bound to hear.

"I never knew his name, though I've wondered if Mycroft knows it since I doubt disowning me would have included lifting all the tabs to track my movements through CCTV. It is alright if you ask for us where you are John, I understand if maybe you want to know more than I do. It doesn't matter that I didn't know his name, I never asked for it on purpose. I never asked any of them what their name was," the soft voice carried across the line and John couldn't help closing his eyes while his lips formed a tight line as if his body was battening down the hatches to endure the storm of the detective's words.

"This is the time, my dear lovely John, when I must tell you of my second overdose. This one was similar to the last. The thought of doing it had been lurking under the surface for a while, but it was only when opportunity presented itself that I decided on that course of action fully. My sincerest apologies again doctor, you must understand I never thought I'd have you on the other end of this phone to tell my secrets to. I never considered what they might look like under harsher light."

_Rather small on the list of things you never considered Sherlock_

"It was with the latest of my…colleagues that I made the offer of a little extra for a little extra. I made several injections with perhaps more force than was necessary but I was constantly furious at myself for both allowing myself to need the drugs so badly and stooping so far beyond low to get them. On the last needle I prepared, I even broke the tip. Such a funny detail to remember. Would you like to know what else I recall?"

_Yes, and no._

"Saying yes, always so dangerous John. I remember the fog again, the cool feeling of the tiles on the floor, thinking if I closed my eyes it could be a lab and this all just one bad experiment. Then the sound of several pairs of feet stomping loudly, ruining my perfect fog. The door of the flat I was laying in was kicked down, the noise hurt my head which seemed stupid to think as it wasn't as though I cared about what happened to my head did I? The very last thing I remember doing is looking up and seeing Lestrade clearing the room before his eyes fell on me."

John could not stop the sigh of inexpressible relief. He would text Greg about that pint the D.I always wanted the doctor to go for. John would buy him a hundred rounds for bringing Sherlock Holmes to him. Even with the ending to the story John knew was coming, he was still horrifically thankful to have been a character in it in the first place.

"He is a story for a different day though. This is as good a place as any to stop for now, don't you think John? I feel a bit not well at the moment which is probably because I've never been a drinker, as you know. It may be also the subject matter of our conversation but that realm of sentiment is not one I choose to understand. No need to fret though, my good doctor. I will be honest with you as I promised. You should call Lestrade, I am sure he would like to hear from this new you wherever you are as much as I would. Until next time."

_Click_

**Authors Note: I'd absolutely love to know what you thought! Many of you were very good with the title, it is important in the end I swear. If you're interested in what I've been listening to when writing this story, Recovery by Frank Turner on repeat is an excellent place to start!**


	11. The Talk

**Authors Note:So my darlings, it has been an unacceptable number of days since a new chapter and I apologize. I was swamped with work and school (behavioural neuroscience counts for something with this fandom right?). I couldn't do the story justice and I really do hate writing when I feel like it's going that badly. I'm hoping an update with my other story, this chapter and another one later this afternoon helps!**

It is strange how quickly his own phone had begun to feel foreign in John's hand. Too bulky, scratched in places he'd once been told were clear signs the device had once belonged to an alcoholic. It was very different from the thing, smooth surface of the phone whose history the doctor didn't like to think about despite the fact that he'd been carrying the thing like an infant in his arms the past few days.

John resolutely did not think about the fact that he had not needed his own phone ever since the package had arrived at the flat. There had been no impulses to contact the living it would seem. Though to be fair to himself, John would point out that there hadn't been many impulses like that before the package either.

That might have explained the surprised (borderline shocked, excessive in John's opinion) response from the D.I who didn't know that the doctor was being guide by the advice of a deadman.

"Lestrade."

"Hey Greg it's, uh, John," he stuttered embarrassingly, chalking it up once again to lack of practice making calls. His brain felt like it could vaguely remember a time when he'd been good at making conversation. Years ago.

"John! How've you been? Haven't heard from you in ages!" came the excited reply.

"I'm…fine. Look I was calling to see if you wanted to grab that drink? And…talk. If you're free."

"Of course I can, usual place?"

The usual place was a short distance between both the Yard and , which had been what had made it their usual place. The thought of going near either now made John's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Uh, actually I was thinking the pub near Baker Street might be better."

"Sure, sure. I'll meet you around eight then."

"Ta. See you later."

What had he ever enjoyed about pubs? John was trying to remember but everything about them just seemed terrible. The air was stuffy and confining, he didn't like feeling trapped. There were an awful lot of people socializing, he didn't like watching how easily they laughed or thinking about whether that was how easy such a thing was supposed to be. He didn't even want to be drinking, what with the memory of the single time he'd managed to get Sherlock into a place like this still rolling around his thoughts.

There was some sort of bubble separating John from all these normal people who didn't feel like they belonged with the dead more.

It made his insides positively crawl when a tiny voice in his head suggested that perhaps this was how Sherlock had felt wherever he went. That the great detective had come with John on that distant memory of an evening and felt this detached from everything including John himself. An odd mixture of guilt and understanding washed over him just before Greg Lestrade came through the large doorway.

The D.I gave an appreciative nod to the pint John had already bought him before sitting at the table, looking instantly like this was where he belonged. No bubble for him, just like everyone else.

"Figured I owed you a round," John offered with a small smile which felt chiselled out of ice on his face.

"Reckon you probably do," the other man agreed as he fixed John with a calculating look. John missed calculating looks so much he almost forgot to be uncomfortable about it.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about," Greg asked briskly, taking a large gulp of his drink without really looking away from the ex-army doctor.

John tried to find the words but his tongue felt swollen and dry.

"It's about Sherlock isn't it?" the D.I pressed, but in a gentler tone and with a look of pain on his face that John often saw. It was how people looked when they couldn't avoid mentioning the great detective in his presence.

"What makes you think that?" he gapped back.

Greg honest to god laughed in his face, John frowned into his drink which was an expression his facial muscles didn't protest as much.

"No offense John but it's not like you're beating down my door with offers to hang out. You said you wanted to talk though so it must be something not about me. And you wanted to meet so it wasn't something you wanted to ask over the phone. I know you aren't friends with pretty well anyone at the Yard anymore, so Sherlock's the only person you could want to talk to _me_ about. "

"Not bad," he mumbled looking down at the scratched table top.

"Yeah, as much as Sherlock asked that it be put under review, I am in fact a detective. And I didn't need to be a genius to piece that one together. So out with it," Lestrade settled back into his chair more, one hand lazily wrapped around his drink with that peculiar sadness still lingering somewhere in his eyes. John figured behind the bravo the D.I wasn't completely happy to be discussing the subject matter either. He felt briefly vindicated for the role Greg had played in making Sherlock run but then instantly guilty as John knew for a _fact_ it was a much longer story than all that.

"I wanted… t-to ask about how you met… Sherlock, the first time," he asked with a lump forming in his throat around the name he tried to never bring up in conversation. A person could only stand so much pity in one lifetime. After Sherlock's name had been cleared, John had received more than enough.

The other man instantly shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"He never liked it when I brought that up, told me to drop it before he decided I was too stupid to be dealt with any longer," Greg told him with a mournful looking smile and it caused John to wonder if that was how all of his smiles looked to other people these days.

"I know, I know he didn't like sharing with people but it's important Greg. I just…I have to know. I need to know," John confessed, gulping down more alcohol as it seemed the logical thing to do if these were the kinds of requests he was going to start making.

"You know about the drug busts," Lestrade asked without asking.

John gave a short nod, squashing down the memory of Sherlock telling him to shut up after he'd realized the answer to his stupidly asked _No, You?_. Now was not the time.

"I met him on one of those. God, you should have seen the place John. I couldn't believe the building was standing, let alone that people were living in it. Nothing but mould , rats and old needles. We were just working on that section of the city, one of the more run down parts. I was clearing the upstairs and I didn't think anyone was even there until Sherlock's head popped up once I'd broken down the last door."

The grey haired man hesitated at this part of his story, and John found himself holding his breath even though he already knew what was coming.

"He was a mess John, couldn't believe he was actually alive at first. Skinner than you'd ever believe, and we're talking about Sherlock. Hair was nothing but clumps of tangles and dirt. Clothes torn and splattered with blood from the needle still hanging out of his arm. It was the eyes though, that's what got me, you know?"

Another needless question that didn't require an answer. Of course John knew. Those eyes filled his dreams. Or his nightmares. He wasn't such what to classify them under just yet.

"I only saw them for a second, weird colour and blood shot. They should have looked panic, he had to know he was overdosing or that something was wrong at least. But he looked _bored_, like he was waiting for the drugs to get on with it. It made me feel sick whenever I thought about it for a couple of weeks until I got an update from the hospital saying he was stable and going to rehab in America. Six months later, he stormed into the Yard demanding to see me. Told me not go sticking my nose in his business ever again and gave me the names of six murderers on six different open cases. Kept coming back until I started going to him," Lestrade told him with a shrug, and John felt that flicker of happiness at the mention of Sherlock proving the police inept. It wasn't on but then John was no longer the sort of person to care.

"I always knew he cared about you, that you were different," the D.I added in that gentle tone again, probably the one he used on the victims of cases. It reminded John of his own sympathetic doctor voice and set his nerves on edge. He didn't need to be coddled and the other man seemed to catch the expression on his face.

"I just mean that you were the first person he actually asked me not to tell. He never did that, never brought it up. Just acted like it didn't happen. Would have thought he'd deleted it or whatever that was. Except if I acted too worried about him he'd tell me to stop looking at him like he was about to sprout wings and play the harp, bloody great git. After the drug bust in your flat, he told me never to mention it to you. Didn't want you reading too much into it or some garbage. Wanted to keep you impressed was more like it," and it was so Sherlock John closed his eyes in an attempt to block some of it out. Didn't work.

"You alright?," Greg asked as he placed a firm hand on John shoulder. Appropriate seeing as he already felt like Atlas with the rest of the world weighing him down in there.

"Yeah, yeah of course. Thanks for tell me, it means a lot. Look, I've got to go. Uh, work in the morning," John offered as he placed a few bills on the table to make his escape as he didn't feel like looking this weak in front of Lestrade. Besides, the grey haired man was not who knew the rest of the story.

He decidedly ignored the lack of any surprised look on the D.I's face while he fled.

The flat felt so much better than the pub. The air was a bit dusty but John didn't mind because dust was elegant. No one was laughing or socializing but John didn't mind because socializing was as boring as breathing and he had someone else who was being so delightfully interesting. No one questioned why there were two mugs on the counter when there was only one man to drink the tea being made which John did mind but less than usual as it almost felt like the world's consulting detective was going to walk out in a sheet with a terse _Thank you John_ at any moment.

Emotional crutch indeed.

Again, that thought did nothing to stop him from pressing the play button firmly.

"Ah John, did you see Lestrade? Good, it is nice to know you are still busy being brave," the baritone sounded warm and the complete opposite of how the last message ended.

Even so, John was not quick to allow himself to feel at ease.

"No need to worry about the bravery of a soldier today though, I wish to tell you about my time in Florida and the events which led me properly to you. Hopefully you are comfortable where you are as I quite like this part. Plus it takes my mind off how angry you are with me for spiking your coffee with that sugar, though I will say three days of refusing any drink I make seems more than sufficient for a punishment. I digress, we must stay on topic and you already know more about how this argument plays out than I do. I believe we left off in the flat with Lestrade…"

**Authors Note: I'd love to know what you think, reviews/comments always make me smile! Also, since our last update I've listened to the rest of Frank Turner's new album and if you were interested, "The Way I Tend To Be" is a lovely Sherlock song. The same goes for "If I Didn't Have You" by Thompson Square but that one's attacking the feels a touch more.**


	12. The Ensuring

**Authors Note:So I had way too many troubles with this site trying to post this chapter yesterday, apologies my sweets. To prevent making a liar of myself, today will be the day I'll update twice instead! Look for the second part later tonight!**

_You already know more about how this argument plays out than I do_

Of course he did. John had been mad about being used as a lab rat and it turns out those were amoung the last few days he'd get with the great detective. Thinking about wasting them being angry sent a rather nasty wave of nausea through him.

_Wasted time. There was so much of it and you never said_ he thought bitterly.

"My brother was the one to send me to Florida, to a treatment center whose patient recovery percentages were much higher than average. Though I suspect his main motivation was to put as large a distance as possible between myself and some of my… less than savoury connections. I mostly got the impression it was moronically expensive but that's Mycroft for you, insufferable wanker. Florida didn't agree with me, I'll leave you to imagine what all that damn sun did to my complexion and sand is simply irritating without the proper equipment to test the mineral content. It's like my brother wanted my mind to rot. I do not want to bore you with stories from rehab, none of them are particularly good or interesting, I dare say even you couldn't make a blog about them. I would like to tell you about a particular woman I met on one of the out-patient trips about four months into my stay. You of course already know Mrs. Hudson now, but then she went by Mrs. Lawrence. "

John did not forget how Sherlock had explained his relationship with his landlady when they'd first met. Not the kind of thing one forgot easily.

"Yes John, that was more or less the first thing I deduced about her in the middle of the road. Said it was blatantly obvious her husband was abusing her and was most likely guilty of whatever he was in jail for. Do you know what she did? Patted me on the arm and had me round for tea."

It was just like the detective to sound so amused and pleased at finding someone who wasn't put off by the rapid fire deductions the man could make at any given second. Could have made. Tenses.

"Richard Lawrence was scum John. I know Donovan and Anderson and everyone at the Yard expects me to appreciate a good criminal but there was nothing respectable about that man. Scum John, absolute scum. Touching Mrs. Hudson like that, I find I am glad you will never have to live with the images of bruises as I do my dear doctor. Richard Lawrence was in need of a few falls out of window much higher than ours. Such a petty man, always trying to prove how much power he had. Money, muscle men to do the heavy lifting, a taste for the expensive things. All wrong for Mrs. Hudson but it was a marriage that had gone bitter long ago. The man just didn't like to let go of what he thought of as his property. It is intolerable to think about John, I'm going to choose not to dwell for both our sakes. It won't do to have you come home to more bullet holes in the wall. I'm trying not to make you angry, in case you haven't noticed where I am."

John hadn't, not at the time.

"Turns out she'd been fighting to get his sentence held but they didn't have much evidence. Nasty string of murders, typical of a man with a temper like Richard Lawrence had- absolutely no thought whatsoever he was relying on hired goons to clean up the mess. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to testify against him so obviously her safety was an important factor to consider. Even then I was rather against seeing her in distress, which was new for me. Fortunate really seeing as I was the only one who noticed the ring imprint on one of the victims stomachs, clearly matched the class ring her husband had. Apparently the stupidity of the police is not limited to London. Pity."

John couldn't help a small laugh at the amused wry voice that was only too pleased with the state of law enforcement. He almost didn't think about what the state of law enforcement would end up pushing the same voice into in a matter of weeks. Almost.

"I got her to convince her lawyers to get me the chance to speak with him and I deliberately agitated him. Apparently he has the same subtext as you but that was rather the point. I managed to get him to hit me with enough force to leave a similar bruise pattern and to place himself at the scene. Mrs. Hudson was rather unnecessarily grateful, gave me her information before she moved back here to be close to her sister. I found out much later, long after I'd be released that she was renting out a set of flats she'd purchased with what was left of her husband's money. One of them is that rather dreadful basement you saw, and the other was 221B. For which I feel I may be rather unnecessarily grateful for having found, as it was just about flatmates in the start wasn't it John?"

_I don't know, we were just flatmates for all of five minutes before you dragged me off to that crime scene._

"Hmm perhaps not then, you were always the exception John and it doesn't do the story any good to forget that. My return to London, that was two months after meeting Mrs. Hudson and roughly five years before I met you. This was when I started The Work. The case in Florida gave my brain something to do, a puzzle to work out. Cleared away some of that sewage water from the Mind Palace, better almost than cocaine had. Better almost, the effects feel vastly different even if they are chemically similar. Puzzles are exciting, it's finding out how things tick. The drugs never amplified any part of me, if that makes sense to you. Puzzles do that, they make all my other pieces fall into place and make sense. Do you think of me as a puzzle in and of myself John? I've always liked the idea but it has seemed too foolish to ask in the past. It was just nice, to be good at something without having to sham who I was. I wanted more of them so I hacked into the Yard's security system and solved a few cases for them. Then I just started turning up at scenes, it was truly that easy John."

The doctor didn't doubt the ease with which Sherlock worked his way into Lestrade's good graces. No one ever really won an argument with Sherlock Holmes, especially when it came to cases.

"I would get there and stand behind that infernal yellow tape and everything would be so obvious to me. I couldn't imagine how they weren't seeing it, all the little details just floating around the body. Adulterer by the wedding ring, social anxiety disorder in the finger nails, primary teacher what with the bits of acrylic paint in the hair, not suicide if the cuts on the wrist were that deep. Obvious. What was lurking around their tiny little heads is beyond me. They weren't even interesting cases John, I just solved them to quiet all the noise," Sherlock told him without sounding annoyed about such an inconvenience the way John remembered. He tried not to imagine what _the noise_ sounded like but that didn't really work. Then the doctor tried to imagine what it _did_ sound like and that might have been worse. Remembering all the people in the pub, the dust in the flat, the creak of the windows as the wind beat against them outside.

Small distractions that most people missed. Sherlock Holmes was not most people and he most certainly never missed anything.

**Authors Note: Please let me know what you think! Also, did I mention I've already written the last message? Because I have and I fear a few of you may hate me afterwards. Alas, there are still a few chapters before you need to worry about that!**


	13. The Three

**Authors Note: Later than expected, but see my darlings- two chapters! Who needs sleep, right?**

_Sherlock Holmes was not most people and he most certainly never missed anything._

Except why John didn't want to be left behind but there was hardly any sense in arguing that when no one could actually hear him. "Perhaps you've already worked out that I quite like Lestrade. If so, please refrain from letting him in on the secret. It wasn't the stopping my overdose thing, I am glad that I was around to meet you but that's not why I like him. He's a good man, isn't he John? Just the kind of good you can see straight away, as clear to me as his wife's third affair. Other than staying clean, he's never tried to change me. I know you for some reason hate when I am surprised to find someone who enjoys my company but that is how I felt. I'd never been even tolerated by someone like Lestrade. Before you, I would have said he was the best man I knew. Lestrade was the only person I would have ever described like that and I've often caught myself endeavouring to be more similar to him somehow. I could never quite get it right though, as you must know if you are hearing this."

_You were good too…_

"I really wasn't John but it's okay if you want to think so. It is a bit good I believe. I'm glad you agree with me about Lestrade, or at least I think you do as I've been lead to believe it's mates who go to the pub for drinks together and that's what the two of you are doing right now. He feels almost like the brother I had wished for Mycroft to be, back when I was eleven. I've already told you I don't resent my brother for what happened and that's still the truth. But Lestrade is still good and didn't get mad at me for accidentally telling him about his wife and I care about him the way I might've care about Mycroft if that were the sort of thing we did."

It broke John's already broken pieces of pieces of his heart to think Sherlock was so comfortable with the idea of growing up around people who simply didn't _care_.

"He, Lestrade that is, he's important. And I know I wouldn't have shown it enough for him or maybe even you to believe that but it is true. He is important and he helped me in far more ways than will fit on any phone, even one meant for you John. I have wondered whether you have given any thought to whether I resented Mummy for being the one to give me the talents for The Work. I never have, it is the one blessing I feel I can take out of that time in my life. It is nicer to think one good thing came out of it, no? Lestrade gave me a means in which to do this and his being a good man makes him important. I like to hope my no longer existing has not effected this," the detective said in a more serious voice, but not without the same unusual warmth that maybe talking about his friends brought out in him. John had no point of reference; it wasn't something the detective had done when he was still alive. At least not in front of anyone, as the stupid terrible precious phone proved.

"That was how I met Molly too, through Lestrade. Well, he didn't introduce us but the work he gave me forced me to find an in at the morgue. Molly was and probably will always been too kind for her own good. You should know, you've chastised me enough for abusing this flaw in her character."

"Because you bloody well deserved it, taking advantage for a cup of coffee"

"I can hardly help that she asked for frequently," Sherlock chuckled softly back, and the sound made John's spirits perk up enough that he didn't argue with a phone.

"She is important too, John. Even if it is a flaw, Molly's kindness is special and I dare say I would be even more lost without it. She had granted me far more favours than anyone else in my life with very little evidence to support her claims of my good nature. Much like yourself my dear doctor. I would ask you to be sure to take care of her in my absence but I am already asking so much. Instead I will say that Molly Hopper and you should share a few more of those good days together, it is how the world ought to be."

_My good days stopped three years ago_ the majority of his brain argued back, while a tiny part was clinging to the stupid instinct that always wanted to do as Sherlock asked. It was probably the same tiny part stupid enough to love the great detective.

"Lestrade and Molly. They were the people I cared for most and the closest things I had to friends before you came along. Perhaps they are my friends, and you are simply the best one. That sounds logical, where I am any way. Details though, hardly matters. I cared in my own way and when Mrs. Hudson came back into my life I cared for her as well. She was… a lot of what my life might have been missing before. I admit I might have encouraged her mother hen complex once or twice," Sherlock said with a growing fondness.

"Not your housekeeper indeed," John replied with a small smile.

"Well, she was the only one trying to keep that charade going wasn't she? That was true but it kept the corners of John's lips upturned that tiny bit.

"I did enjoy being fussed over by her, and by you later but I know you don't like it when I point out that's what you're doing. She was the one that insisted I had to move out of the flat I use to have. Said she didn't like seeing me living in squalor, which I assure you is just a slight exaggeration. But, as you know, I couldn't afford one of her flats on my own even with the discount rate. Central London being what it is. Mycroft wasn't keen on giving me access to large amounts of funds. I guess I should probably thank him for that, don't you think? Wouldn't have been complaining about it to Molly when Mike came into the lab if my brother had just given me back the trust fund. That was four hours, thirty one minutes until I met you. Such a silly thing, telling Mike no one would want a flatshare with me. I didn't want anyone, that was the real problem. Ordinary people, far from interesting. I must have just been working my way to a proper sulk if that was the kind of thing I was complaining of, logic had to have been thrown out the window."

John could attest that this was almost always the case when Sherlock was in a solid funk but he didn't like to think of the detective's black moods if it could be helped.

"Still, four hours and thirty one minutes. Exciting to think that was all that remained between us and even I wasn't aware of it yet. These three people. The detective inspector, the forensic pathologist, and the housekeeper. They are key characters in this story I'm telling you. They shaped it. They gave it hope when it was looking to end in the middle of a page. They cared about what happened next. They helped save it, dear doctor. They gave it a reason to want to be saved, even briefly. But your role in greater. I fancy you might be the protagonist, just suits you. Forever a soldier, battling unstoppable forces and immoveable objects. Never running from danger," Sherlock told him in a thoughtful voice.

"Protagonist is John all over. I suppose that might make me the antagonist. Would you be alright with that John? I'm not so sure but again it is only a thought I've had. You saved this story too, even if it does not feel saved where you are. You are a proper protagonist John but the person you were always really fighting against was me. It is my head with the cement and sewage water after all, the rest of me can't be separated from that."

That was a fact the ex-army doctor, ex-consulting detective assistant, ex-flatmate, ex- best friend, ex-everything wanted to ignore. Sherlock and the past, the past and Sherlock. Who had decided that was enough to take the brilliant man from John?

"In the end I am left to wonder if, once you hear it, you will like this story at all. Or if, perhaps, you'll wish you'd never heard it the same way I almost wish I didn't know it off by heart. I hope you know you are my favourite chapters to come, even if my not existing cuts them short. You, Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson are my good days. And it is a lovely thing, spending whatever time I've left surrounded by good. Until next time, my lovely John.

_Click_

**Authors Note: As always, your thoughts on the chapter are adored! Should be back with more soon. The countdown to the end is almost on, it's definitely afoot.**


	14. The Point

**Authors Note:Hello again my sweeties! I got a bit carried away and there will be two chapters again today! Please check back in an hour or so (guessing at my own editing speeds so an hour ish?) for the next one! I've been listening to Platform Fire by Jack's Mannequin for this part, if anyone was interested in that as well!**

_It is a lovely thing, spending whatever time I've left surrounded by good…_

What was John supposed to do with that?

It was as if his body couldn't decide what it wanted to do most. One part wanted to curl into a ball and cry all the tears the detective hadn't for leaving all of them behind. Another part wanted to find out how many tiles on the kitchen wall he could destroy before his hands broke because Sherlock had never told him that those were the good days when they were happening. The last part, the part that kept him from acting on any of the others straight away, was happy. It had been so long since even a fragment of John was associated with that word and it took him a moment to place the emotion. But yes. Happy.

Peculiar as it felt, John Hamish Watson was happy for his friend who had been dead for three years.

It was not a sentiment he would be expressing to his therapist any time soon.

Underneath everything else, John could never deny that being with Sherlock for such a small time mattered the world to him. Knowing that he had offered the great detective some small comfort before the man met such a stupid end made the old ache in John's bone ease up the slightest bit.

Happiness, buried and covered a second under a few layers of anger and confusion and hurt. Mostly when he laughed-instead-of-cried at himself when remembered whose death it was he was trying to rationalize. A cracked skull was more appealing than another day in John's company. And it wasn't fair to think that but he figured it also wasn't fair to leave your best friend behind where he was able to think in such a way. Part of John could be happy, could say _there you go, he knew you tried- isn't that what you wanted?_ but it wouldn't matter in the end. Knowing Sherlock had felt a touch of the kindness around him did John no good. It brought back the anger that made him want to break himself in order to break something else.

It wouldn't matter in the end because John knew the end already. He knew the rest of the story. Knew when it was exactly that the phone would stop giving him answers and be filled with nothing but ghosts of the last week spent trying to put together a new picture of the man he had thought he knew everything about until a rooftop got in the way. Why was he waiting for Sherlock to tell him? Why did he need to hear the other man say it? John already knew and the thought of that silky baritone making the words permanent made his blood run cold.

John did not want the messages to stop. He did not want to hear Sherlock tell him that it hadn't been enough. That he hadn't been enough. That, at some point, John had failed him. That no amount of caring had kept the detective close. It would be easy to be mad at the man for not seeing, not observing how dependent John had allowed himself to become. That would be the easy thing to mad for, but John was mad because Sherlock had not told him why. That had to be the purpose to these messages, yet it hadn't come.

_Why was I not good enough?_

It was a question that felt like it would haunt John's every moment, regardless of whether he was asleep or not. He would simply start to dream of a Sherlock Holmes who took his hand with bright merry eyes while saying_ Of course you were enough John, whatever are you talking about?_. He would start to have nightmares of a Sherlock Holmes who rejected his hand with that familiar sneer while saying _Did you ever care? I hardly noticed, you're just a big ole liar who's making up stories_. While awake, John would think of nothing but the answer to this question. In the hopes he could sleep and have nothing but blank whiteness behind hid eye lids.

_Why was I not good enough?_

Did he even want to know the answer to that question? Would he want the detective spell it out for him if that were a possibility? Would he want a concise, because that was what Sherlock had always been, list of all of his short comings? A bulleted and categorized collection of findings in the field of "Why John Hamish Watson Was Not Worth The Effort"?

_Yes, and no._

It would hurt. Hurt like hell. Worse than getting shot, worse than watching the brilliant man jump off that ledge three years ago. To know. To take all other possibilities that he had fabricated as reasons for Sherlock's actions would be quite effectively taken off the table. There would be no more pretending then. Knowing, listening to the explanations given on the phone. It was dangerous. But Sherlock had always been right about his intentionally seeking out danger and John could not continue in a world without some form of closure on the death of his best friend. Though that was a term which no longer sounded like it encompassed enough of what the other man had been. Closure and knowing. John needed it.

_Why was I not good enough?_

For the first time, he truly hesitated. Not one of his fingers marched eagerly on to press the play button on the voicemail messages without a second thought as they'd done before. Survival instinct, had to be kicking in. There was no stopping his knowing, not since he'd opened the door for the delivery man and the tiny brown box. It was inevitable, but his body could protest this fact. No more pretending, was he ready? To close the book on Sherlock Holmes once and for all? The rest of the world had done so years ago, this must have just been his turn.

Closure was never easy, neither was giving up the little lies you told yourself to get up in the morning when the light in your life snuffed itself out. There was no sense in clinging on to the shell of a life John had now. But then again, there was no point to much of what he did.

There was no point in buying marmalade when he only liked jam. There was no point in keeping a full sugar bowl when no one came for tea. There was no point in reading the crime sections in newspapers. There was no point in keeping his gun in working order in case they should run into a sleazy character on the way home. There was no point in calling 221B home when it was empty just like him. There was no point in letting his mind picture the same flat fifty years down the road with wallpaper that still belong in another century. There was no point in his mind placing a consulting detective with hair streaked with grey in one of the armchairs. There was no point in thinking of that tiny smile he sometimes got when he was being especially ridiculous and amusing, as if finding this grey haired man waiting there should have been expected. There was no point in allowing his heart to wish for this same scene to appear for another thirty years. There was no point in wanting to wake up one day at ninety five and have the weathered grey haired man idly deduce that he thought he might die later that afternoon, if John felt like joining him on a case of sorts one more time. There was no point in being happy with the ending, with wanting to say that he'd be happy to as soon as he'd had one last cup of tea. There was no point.

It wouldn't happen.

Because knowing was unavoidable and inevitable and even in death Sherlock Holmes would not let him play pretend.

It would hurt. Hurt like hell. But then again, there was no point in much of what he did so John would rip this Band-Aid off regardless of whether the scab underneath began bleeding again.

Marching fingers found him again.

Authors Note:Please let me know what you thought, I love hearing from you more than Mycroft loves cake! Also, the countdown is definitely on now, shall we collectively brace ourselves?


	15. The Coin

**Authors Note: Okay I lied, a touch more than an hour ish (thats the most acccurate measurement of time ever, no?) but here is the second chapter for today!**

"Hello my good kind doctor. I've a bit of unexpected time to talk today and as I feel my bits of unexpected time are rapidly running out it seemed logical to spend this one on you. I think you will be okay with this. It seems such a tiny thing to concern yourself with, trying to figure out when I recorded these messages without you knowing. That was rather the point, my dear John. For the time being I am a genius and you knowing ahead of time couldn't be allowed. Again, my apologies as always. Today's time was unexpected as I'd meant to be at the courthouse with you all day. Having been kicked out yesterday though, there is a lot of quiet in the flat which needs wrecking."

John felt like his head had been submerged under water at the mention of him being in a courthouse for a reason unrelated to Sherlock. He knew which trial the detective was speaking of, it instantly made his mind count out how many days his phone Sherlock had left.

"No need to dwell I'm afraid. I find I may upset you with the knowledge that there is one more person who I must speak of before I can get to you John. I do not need to guess here, I know for a fact you will not like that this is a part of the story. I must ask you to put it on that list of things you can consider forgiving me for. Since you are at his trial today, it seems apt that I must talk to you just a bit about James Moriarty," Sherlock told him with a soft sigh which John felt did not nearly come close to enough to expressing how much he wished this topic not be touched.

Had Sherlock already known? Had he already figured out that Moriarty would be so interwoven in those last few days, that John would hold the snake like man responsible till the end of time. At Kitty Reily's flat the detective had seemed just as surprised to see the reptile shamming as Richard Brook, so maybe he had been as in the dark as John about how far James Moriarty would go to ruin Sherlock's reputation. This was Sherlock Holmes though, and it was hard to imagine him not knowing something so crucial. Unimportant trivia like pop stars and the solar system but surely Sherlock hadn't been blindsided. Weren't the messages on the phone and the great detective's own acknowledgement of the dwindling time left between them proof of that? Did that mean he was giving too much credit to the consulting criminals actions?

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We will start at the beginning for this as well, alright John? If you are still with me I take that as a yes. So, the Carl Powers case. That was the first time I had any kind of contact with Jim. It wasn't my first proper case, as you know, but then I was only eight so investigating wasn't much of an option even if I had started detective work then. He was eleven and the police never would have worked it out. I most likely wouldn't have either, not without the shoes. Little Jimmy with the coke-bottle glasses always getting picked on, always getting beat up, always getting ignored. If he'd been older, one would call that motive. As the pair of us were only children living very separate lives, I suppose they call that growing up, correct?"

John wanted to ignore the implication that Sherlock was subjected to similar treatment. Then he wanted to rip anyone who had ever touched one raven curl to shreds. He simultaneously wanted to give the same treatment and/or pin a medal on the people who had given James Moriarty cause to strike back.

"It wasn't until you and the case with the cabbie that I actually heard the name. Someone who sponsors a serial killer, my fan. I was… intrigued. I couldn't help myself John, do you understand? A puzzle, this game of his. I played into his hand, he made me dance and it ended with you in that pool with enough Semtax to take out a city block. I got so caught up in James Moriarty that I allowed him to get his disgusting hands on you, allowed him to put you in mortal danger without having to walk over my dead body to do it. It is an unforgiveable mistake which I do not seek forgiveness for. That is my burden to bear," the detective told him in a resigned tone.

_Yes, and no._

"Jim and I, such a curious thing. Are we two sides of the same coin, John? Or is it a trick coin and we're only pretending I'm any different from him. The psychopath and the sociopath, a matched set," the beautiful terrible voice said bitterly.

"You are not like that man," John bit vehemently back at the phone, wishing the detective was there so that he could shake some sense into the other man for yet another reason.

"You are right my good doctor. We both know that's not quite true," Sherlock agreed softly from a hundred light-years away.

John could almost smell the mixture of chlorine and explosives at those words.

_I will burn the heart out of you_

"I will never be what Jim is looking for, a worthy adversary. Do not mistake me John, I will fight him and I will not repeat my mistakes. But I have a weakness where he has none. My defect of sorts has put me on the losing side in this battle between us. It makes me more desperate and desperate people make mistakes. This is the same reason I ask you to forgive Mycroft's involvement with Moriarty, once it comes to light. My brother couldn't have known the lengths Moriarty would go to, just as I had not known until that tiny red dot flickered over you my dear doctor. Desperate men, the pair of us. Who would have thought that was how the Holmes' brothers would come to be described? It is true. Mycroft was looking to stop the crime rings that are choking much of Europe under Moriarty's guidance and I was trying to prevent him from burning what matters most to me," said the same quiet voice.

John couldn't help when he asked whoever might be listening for the chance to ask when Sherlock Holmes' heart began to matter more than his head.

"I suppose I have you to thank for that John. I have your influence on my life to confirm that I am not the sociopath Moriarty would wish for me to be. Know this John because I must confess something to you. Even if I am not all that I thought I was before you limped into my lab, I know I have not changed enough to ignore the call of the game. I will always come to the scenes Jim leaves me, I will always be putting you in harm's way, I will always make a target of you John. And you are made of good, a proper protagonist. So in this story, the one of my invention, I wish for the antagonist to aid the hero. Has that been done before? I don't know, never cared for fairy tales. Regardless, in our story the protagonist will be a hero without needing to do the conquering. The antagonist is going to realize that if he allows things to continue, it will mean the end of both men. Then he will decide to take himself out of the story, because the story deserves a happy ending. Heroes and good days."

Why had the detective never included himself in either of those categories?

"I know I told you when you first received this package that I wasn't sure where to begin. I picked my own beginning as it is important that you know why my not existing is for the best. It was my beginning but it is not my story. I wanted desperately to tell you the story of an army doctor who went aboard somewhere where he was getting shot at and he ended up getting shot. I wanted desperately to tell you that this same now ex-army doctor would meet a strange man because he can't afford London on an army pension. I wanted desperately to tell you that the strange man will be a consulting detective and the ex-army doctor will not know what that is which is okay because it turn out the ex-army doctor likes having the strange man explain things to him. I wanted desperately to tell you of the cases they would solve together because one is good and one is brilliant even if he is not good. And I think you would have liked that story a lot more. In fact I know you would have, you've been telling it on that blog of yours this whole time. So I would like for you to consider these messages the events which lead up to the real story. And the real story is not mine, it did not start as I said on that first message. It started in a rundown flat full of needles and under the purple sky in Afghanistan. In a hospital, but different ones. Telling one man the same thing on the same day when neither of us believes in fate, I know you don't so don't argue. "

John found all of his insides felt too dry and the outside of his face felt too wet for any arguments to be formed.

"The story is the both of us and if you allow me I would like the chance to tell the rest of it, properly. For now though, I suspect you will be trying to call me with the verdict. Not guilty, right? No matter. I will tell you all about the short man who likes to yell at me about toenails in the kettle when we meet again. Until next time, my ex-army doctor."

_Click_

**Authors Note: Again, your lovely thoughts are most welcome! If you were feeling particularly masochistic today, "Let It Hurt" by Rascal Flatts was the musical inspiration at work here. Another update will arrive shortly!**


	16. The Wound

**Authors Note:Hello all my darlings! I don't think I've ever gotten so many messages about tears than from those last two chapters. I'm so sorry, have a shock blanket on me! It may only be getting worse from hear on out to be fair but how would you like two chapters again on this lovely day? They go together once again, so please enjoy this one and the next will be up in an hour (or so, you know me).**

Was there a word to describe how John had felt? Surprised- no too ordinary, he felt surprised when someone actually smiled at him on his way to work. Shocked- maybe a little much, possibly too negative though the doctor wasn't sure yet. Baffled- closer, a little too tame to describe an emotion elicited by Sherlock Holmes. Bewildered, confounded, perplexed. Puzzled. Ah, that sounded right. Used in an ironic, wry sarcastic tone that really shined through when said in a deep baritone. _Puzzled. Of course John, if that's what your funny little head thinks_ the same voice told him inside his head. John Hamish Watson was puzzled about how he fit into the story, puzzled about when Sherlock's steps became towards an _us_ instead of just _me_.

Did he want to know how he had worked his way in? Would that be a good thing? Would John Hamish Watson be a reason to stay or a reason to go? Which of those things was worse? If he had been a reason to stay, if all the good things Sherlock had said about him were true then why give it all up? Wasn't killing yourself meant to be saved for when you had nothing left? Was John just not enough of a reason? The cons still outweighed the pros? Why would the detective pick the case with Moriarty to decide that John couldn't be as happy with the danger as he had always attested? Why was John too much of a target then?

Or maybe he was a reason to go.

He couldn't begin to be honest with himself about how much that thought scared him. That he would play a message and have Sherlock tell him that the guilt he felt for John's involvement was too much. That the detective had decided that he didn't want to be the reason for John getting shot at again. He didn't even want to contemplate the idea that Sherlock might have thought John would be happier with the world's only consulting detective out of the picture.

_No, that's not possible_.

Surely Sherlock knew. He couldn't be daft enough to think that John didn't want his best friend, the person closest to him in the entire world, to be around anymore. John would trade anything, meet any price, even trade places if it meant dying with the knowledge the world had Sherlock Holmes in it again. Hadn't the detective seen him when they first met? He'd been half asleep at the wheel of his life. Not dying but not living. Sherlock fixed him, showed him the light that John hadn't realized came from the detective himself until it was too late. It was likely that John Watson would have died in that army flat if he hadn't taken a walk in the park one day.

_Sherlock had to know this_ a tiny voice in his head thought.

_There's only one way to find out_ came another deeper voice which was sadly only in his head as well.

He pressed the same button as always.

"I had intended for this message to encompass all of your worst qualities John," the detective admitted casually and John felt his breath catch when one of his worst fears started to play out before his eyes.

"This was what I wanted to do as it had been made known to me that sometime people find it easier to move on once all their emotional ties have been severed. I would still very much like for you to be happy John and if this means finding someone else to provide you with the thrill of danger then I accept it. It occurred to me that it might be easier for you to do this if I replace our friendship with some bitter resentment on your part. So, a list of your faults was my job. I have spent most of the afternoon trying to work out what would be best to say," was explained to him calmly and John tried not be uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock Holmes' brain spending time thinking about his faults.

"Are you insecure about your height John? I think you might be but to say anything other than the fact that I imagine you are the perfect size for leaning against on walks on a cold night, would be a lie. I'm a few years younger than you, perhaps your age would have been a sensitive subject but I like all the secrets the lines around your eyes give away. Your hair is slowly going grey but even that is such a complex mixture of colours that all I want to do is compliment you on your follicles. When did you manage all this John? I know for a fact I am excellent at insulting people but you cause me to draw a pretty large blank. All my list consists of after three hours and 47 minutes is one flaw. Would you like to know what it is?" Sherlock asked him in that habitually curious tone.

_Yes, and no._

"That my ideal flatmate would not go rifling through my sock index. Your blatant disregard for a completely logical organizational system is literally your biggest flaw, my good doctor. How does someone such as yourself even exist? You're near perfect John and you've even got me questioning now if I really care about socks all that much. This is starting to get in the way of my making you resent me, hate me properly. I believe my not existing may have played a role in achieving these ends, but from what I know about you even this might not be sufficient. I find myself unable to think of better ways to manipulate you. Which is what this would be, a manipulation. All the reasons regular people hate me haven't managed to send you running for the metaphorical hills yet John so it would have to be a trick. And yet I find myself reluctant to hurt you more."

"Could have fooled me, " John mumbled without real bite.

"More than necessary, I should clarify your right. Doing more damage than is needed, such a fine line. I have already made the assumption my death with impact you, and another that you will still be concerned about it by the time my package finds you. Does this mean you will still be damaged after so long? Is my not existing going to do the opposite of what I hope? How severely will I have broken my soldier?," the baritone asked in a bitterly sad way that didn't sit nearly as well with John as it had before.

**Authors Note:I know this one is a touch shorter than usual but the next chapter does connect with this one so it all balances out I swear! I would love to know what you think about this chapter and I'll be back with more shortly!**


	17. The Salt

**Authors Note: Here is your second part, late as predict because I'm the worst. Ah well. If you were wishing to find out the opposite side of the future John pictured, you are about to find your wish granted. Please enjoy!**

_How severely will I have broken my soldier?..._  
"I sincerely wish I knew the answer to that John but it is obvious that I won't ever get the chance to find out. Can we pretend that this is fair? Will you do that for me? I have told you about my pieces John, the things I know had made me broken long before you or dear Jim. Damaged beyond repair. Can we say that this is the price I'm willing to pay for having brought you down with me? That for the completely unacceptable short amount of time we have left, we can just be two broken people together? Even like this, even if you are still whole where I am. I wish I were where you are now, so that this might comfort the version of you I will never know."

John found he wished for similar things.

"A broken John Watson, a John Watson brought to his knees. I find even _my _mind has trouble wrapping itself around the idea that I and it are going to miss seeing this should it ever happen. Since the day you walked into that blessed lab, there hasn't been one moment when I thought I might not want to know John Watson anymore. You are endlessly fascinating John, you are so unlike everyone else. You see me. In fact, if you are hearing this, then you see me and you _know_ me. Have you still not turned away? What is it about being John Watson that makes you do that? I always wanted to know, I hope you believe that. The story of the ex-army doctor and the strange man, I am ill-fated to find myself missing the ending."

It seemed pointless to argue that the world's only consulting detective wasn't missing much.

"The beginning though, wasn't that something my dear dear John? Beginnings are terribly important, I hope I've emphasized this enough for you by now. A psychosomatic limp and a history of deserts meets me in the lab of a morgue. Doesn't our beginning say a lot about the pair of us John? Or maybe we didn't start until after you agreed to the flat, the dinner at Angelo's. You asking me about dating and I gave you the same answer I gave everyone else- married to the work. This still says a lot about where we ended up, doesn't it? I'm not sure I like that for our start, married to the work speaks too much about the end don't you think? Maybe my favourite spot to put the beginning of our story is the double window shot which killed the cabbie. I lost my answer to his chess game but I found out your hands didn't shake at all when you killed someone to save me. I am rather fond of that beginning, even if you saved me many more times after that. Starting with being saved by you sets the right tone for the rest of it. And I find I like to think of my not existing as returning the favour," the detective explained with some sort of whimsical undertone when thinking back to the first few days of strange man and ex-army doctor. John decided he didn't want to acknowledge the twisted logic the other man offered at the end.

"Don't skip ahead though, there are so many good bits with you. Giggling at crime scenes and chases across rooftops, they felt more wonderful than any drug I've ever tried and I've tried so many. Do you remember the experiment that blew up the microwave in all those different colours? The argument over whose got the right to monopolize the couch and how that isn't based on levels of boredom contained within the person? The time I bought the milk and you told me I should have texted ahead or I was going to give you a heart attack next time? All the nights when you'd have nightmares and I would play my violin so that you had a good reason to be up? Do you remember all the tiny details of this incredible story John? There are so many days I cannot believe it is possible that they happened to someone such as myself but then I go into the kitchen and there you are with that kettle and two mugs and that smile. Like you are happy to be kidnapped every other week, like you are happy to defend me from the likes of Donovan and Anderson, like you are happy to spend a night doing nothing but eating take-away you had to go an hour to get because only one restaurant uses the soy sauce I like. It cannot be possible, so it shouldn't be believed yet here you are listening to me now. Even when you know I will have stopped all that. When you already know it was no longer a risk I was willing to take for your sake. Two mugs and a smile John, it is so much more than I would have ever thought I deserved."

"You stupid, stupid, stupid man. You deserved more, so much more! Everyone should have seen it!," the doctor yelled into a dusty silence, feeling the tightness in his throat return.

"Again, it is fine if that is what you want to believe John but I do not think it. You were the exception that proved the rule in my life. So I wish to tell you about that, if you will let me. I want to tell you about my exception and the ending I would have preferred to our story which I know now can never be the truth but is still a not-truth I find comforting. Perhaps you will as well," Sherlock almost seemed to ask, and John hated himself a tiny bit more again for the doubt the detective had so many times when it came to the doctor's feelings.

"Whether you decide to listen or not, I find I want to tell it any way. I know what I must have done for you to hear this, but it is nice to imagine that this is what I will do instead. It will be what makes my darkest hours bearable. I will picture that ex-army doctor I told you about, wearing a ludicrous jumper and walking with no sign of the injury that sent him home years ago. He will have hair with more grey than blonde and the kindness in his eyes still makes him look younger than he actually is though he is quite old now. The ex-army doctor will be walking down a gravel road, surrounded by grassy fields which remind him of his childhood home and not one bit of the deserts soaked in blood. He will smile and sigh because he is so content when he sees a white house coming up on the left. The house is surrounded by flower beds and bees buzz lazily in the air. This is when he sees the strange man, who is also quite old and it shows more because his face gained laugh lines so rapidly a couple decades before. The strange man will look just as content and the ex-army doctor will ask how the honey looks today. That will be the sort of questions they ask each other John, they don't take on cases anymore and haven't been to London in a few years. And it won't bother them that this is true, the strange man doesn't need those things anymore because the ex-army doctor matters more. So he will say that the honey is exquisite, perfect for tea later. They will have tea and discuss the state of the organic honey industry every day. Until all the bees in the world die. Until the house collapses. Until the world stops making tea. Until they decide to stop existing together. Except they won't stop entirely, people will remember them and a story can't stop existing as long as people know it. Which the ex-army doctor and the strange man will like because their story isn't the sort that ought to end anyway."

_I would have done it, I would have done that every day with you John thought as he choked on another sob. _

"Is that how you would have wanted things to be for them John? If I were someone else, someone less broken and capable of impossible brave things like you are my dear doctor, I would have done this for you. But I am sewage water and cement and in one room of the Mind Palace I know all the ways I will be the end of what is good in John Watson. And I am not sure if I must stop existing because it is the only way to get rid of dirty water and rocks or if I must because I would do it. I would ruin you because, if I don't do what I've already done where you are, I would never let you go. I would have you for the rest of your life and then after you died I'd ask Mycroft to have you stuffed so I could mount you in your armchair. I would be the one to ruin John Watson and even if I am the antagonist, I do not want to be that person. I want to give you good days but I am a thief of them. I will stop stealing them from you soon though, there is only a little left to tell you before this narrative becomes yours to finish my lovely John. Until next time.

_Click_

**Authors Note: As ever my loves, I am secretly thrilled (okay not so secretly) to know what you think. I must also be the one to tell you that the next chapter will be the last message. Shock blankets? Shock blankets. Also, "Better Life" by Paper Route may very well end up being the theme song to this entire work so feel free to listen to that (preferably the performance for relevant magazine because it is just better. at everything). Our next adventure will either be tomorrow or the day after, depending on my work schedule so until then!**


	18. The Prayer

**Authors Note: Well, here we are and here it is! The last message, which was written with copious amounts of tea and salted caramel ice cream if you felt like following suit when reading. All I ask is that you not only see, you observe. Oh, clever you!**

John was distantly, vaguely, dimly aware of the sound of someone wailing. It might have been him but he couldn't be sure. Maybe someone outside had been run over and shot while watching someone drown their puppy at the same time, would have to be something dreadful like that to account for those odds sounds. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and barbed wire made of velvety smooth words that had no right to be reaching his ears now. He couldn't think, and there wasn't even anyone around to laugh and say _Why is that alarming today?_ at him which made things worse. What good was there that thinking would have done though? Thinking wouldn't put bubbling experiments on the kitchen table for John to eye suspiciously. Thinking wouldn't clear all the dust of three years from the flat and fill it with case files for some new monster that had to be caught. Thinking wouldn't bring back the world's only consulting detective so that John might yell that any ruin brought onto him by Sherlock Holmes would have been a blessing compared to this. To this hollowness, to this longing, to this being left behind when there was no reason for him to want to stay without the other man. John Hamish Watson would kindly take the damage, gladly accept the ruin, clap his hands with glee to be nothing but part of the wreckage right alongside the detective at the end of their days.

He wanted the life that Sherlock had known about but hadn't been willing to give him. He wanted the house he'd never seen, the bees and the tea with ruin and wreckage on the side. How could Sherlock have such a thought, such a not-truth lingering inside him that shot straight to the heart of everything the doctor had realized he wanted once it was too late? Why couldn't Sherlock have just told him?

But that was the problem right there. That was the part of the equation John kept forgetting like a dropped zero. None of what he'd heard had been told to him when there were still unexpected bits of time to do something with. All of it was too late.

Sherlock had always been so private, so closed off. Even to John, who knew him better than most anyone. When would the detective have opened up like this when he was alive? To John's face, never. That would have involved sentiment, giving in to feelings, showing all the cards in his hand. All things very un-Sherlock in nature. John knew that was true, knew the fact that the detective had bothered to leave behind this phone was more than he had any right to expect. He couldn't even begin to imagine how many times Sherlock probably debated putting into action whatever complicated plan would ensure John received the package after so long. John found it much easier to believe that the detective had done the impossible again so he hadn't thought much about how Sherlock had done it. He was too busy hating and loving the man for the gesture. It was a toss-up which feeling would win once John no longer had a baritone voice reassuring him that there was still at least one more time, one more adventure, before the two of them had to part ways for good.

He would get the answer to that question relatively soon, just as Sherlock had promised. There was no ignoring the neat typed font displayed like a warning on the screen of the phone.

_1 new voicemail. Plug device into power source._

If he could, if it were possible, John fancied he might never listen to that message. He would hold onto it and cherish its existence for years like a pressed flower in a heavy old book. If it had been an option, John would have carried the knowledge that there was a piece of Sherlock that had not died and it was resting in his cardigan pocket where he would protect it as long as his body was able. Had John had any say in the matter, he would never have allowed only one message to be left. If he'd been able to insist, John would have forced Sherlock to speak a lifetime into the phone and if the detective accidentally lived a lifetime doing that then so be it.

As it was though, in the real world, John was forced to comply to the wishes of a deadman who was still clever enough to outsmart the doctor. Him and Jennifer Wilson, a right pair.

Foiled by the life of a phone battery. It made John's eyes sting to think of the _Brilliant_ that linger on the tip of his tongue, a compliment he no longer wanted to give.

He briefly remembered the time in his army training when he'd been taught combat breathing. Oxymoron. In through the nose for a count of four, hold your breath for a count of four, exhale out the mouth for a count of four, repeat. Fight down the fight or flight response, the cortisol in the blood stream. No shaking, no freezing up, complete focus on the task, no thinking it through before running into a collapsed building or a warzone. At some point his body had subconsciously picked up the rhythmic _four, four, four_ pattern as John pressed the button which was his faulty support beam in that building, the IED in the warzone. Unaccounted for danger.

He was met with a long pause of soft static, punctuated by the melody of someone else's breathing. Lungs that John missed more than he would ever miss the air in them.

"You compared me to a machine just now John," Sherlock eventually said just before John could wonder if the static were a trick.

He swallowed thickly, having replayed the memory of when such horrible words slipped from his mouth enough times to know where Sherlock was.

"Machines. Able to disconnect, parts only working to serve a purpose, unaware of feelings. It would be easier if that were true my dear John," the detective confessed with that unending sadness in his voice again, one that made John think of the children in Afghanistan who had asked him if stars were holes into heaven.

"It would be easier if I were a machine. Much easier. You're right. If that were the case, knowing that that was the last time I will see your secret filled face or kind eyes would not hurt quite so much."

_It certainly couldn't hurt more…_

"You might be right again there; you've always been surprisingly insightful John. Perhaps I should have said before. It's not important now though, is it? I suppose I owe you another apology for the ruse with Mrs. Hudson. I know it's a bit not good to let you think she'd dying but it had to be done. I…I just didn't…"

Static. Heavier breathing than before and John had the fleeting thought that Sherlock was composing himself.

"I just didn't want you to be in the lab before I go up," a firmer voice forced out quickly.

Even so, the words cut into his skin like posh sounding razors.

"I'm sorry John. I'm so very very sorry. I hate repeating myself but I would repeat that for as long as it took for you to believe me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What balm do words make? Do they help at all? Do they comfort? Does it make you feel better if I say I know that you did not mean what you said, not like everyone else whose told me that before?"

_Yes, and no_.

"You reacted as I expected. Part of the plan. I'm sorry there's a plan John but there had to be. Do you understand this already? Do you see? You are my weakness John, my conductor of light. If you knew too soon, you would try to fix me I'm sure of it. You would fail, even you could not manage that John. Even you. Even when you look at me when you think I won't notice, like I am something precious and worthy of being kept by a person like you. You would fail but in those moments it is so tempting to let you try any way. But that is not fair; all my cracks run too deep. You would fail and I won't do that to you. Please forgive me for that my lovely doctor. Please forgive that I was a failure too long before you might have been able to help."

John would have still liked that opportunity, regardless of what the detective said.

"I have to protect you from me," Sherlock's voice told him, setting off goosebumps on John's skin.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

"This is the way things must be, so perhaps I will pretend to be a machine that is fine with knowing it won't see John Watson again. I must admit, it won't be the easiest performance in my acting career," the detective told him solemnly, taking a few more deep breaths.

John wondered if the other man had been counting them, how many were left.

"It didn't _have_ to be like this Sherlock, it didn't. This isn't better," John said to his palms after burying his face in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to say that the brunette could have found the words and the way to tell John in time so that neither would have had to _leave_.

"I can't stay but I don't want to go," a cracking voice whispered back to him.

That was enough to tear another sob from the John's chest, for that strange wailing to start up again. Hidden from the rest of the world behind the shield of soldier hands.

For a long while, or possibly no more than a minute, the strange man and the ex-army doctor cried together as if mourning all the things that they both knew would never get the chance to be. Grief reaching across three years, or possibly no more than a minute.

It occurred to John then that he was tired of that feeling, or rather of being the only one left to have that feeling. It occurred to John then that he had only ever wanted to be with Sherlock Holmes, possibly even before they'd met. It occurred to John then that he was glad for that ridiculous compulsion to keep his gun in working order despite criminal activity.

Both men seemed to sober at the same moment. Composure. Suppress the fight or flight instinct. Combat breathing.

"I do not know if you will ever hear this, if you will ever dare to listen this far. I know it is unfair for this to be how you learn all there is to know about myself and how we ended up in this situation, you and I John. I do not know if you will want to know any of this once my package finds its way to you. But I am willing to hope that you are still brave, my dear doctor. I can't bring myself to picture you any other way. So wherever you are, I think you brave. So brave that you will have listened to all of these in that calm way you have, ever the soldier. So brave that you will believe I've told the truth. So brave that you will know you are not to blame for what I've done. I do not know if you will ever hear this, but I feel as if you will. And it is you who taught me to trust my feelings so this one must be correct. In the end, it may not matter. Whether you hear this or not, it is still the truth of me. And it is worth saying, even if no one hears. You understand this, don't you? Even if there is no God for you to believe in, a person can still pray."

_Please, God, let me live_

"If reincarnation is real, between us I will know first. Here is my prayer then. I pray that it is. I pray that there are hundreds of worlds and London's waiting for us. I pray I find you in each and every one. I pray they are all full lifetimes after this one because I do not want to leave you again too soon, it is too difficult. I pray you will not leave either. I pray that we grow old, very old every time, and buy that house in the country so that I may teach you all about bees until we die in our sleep together. I pray I never hurt you in our new lives. But I also pray you do not join me in the next round for quite some time, nothing but good days remember John?"

_Sherlock, no, don't do this._

"If I cannot have this life, with Mrs. Hudson and our tiny flat then there is no one I would like to have it more than you. If right now is the only moment I have left, then I will seize the opportunity to say I love you John. More deeply and thoroughly than I would have considered myself capable of a few short years ago. I know it may not have shown, with the violin playing and the experiments and all the yelling I make you do. But it is also the truth. You are how I know I am not a sociopath, how I know I am not a machine made of gears, how I know I am more than a mind and transport. You are my heart John Watson and it is a miracle you exist. After all this time. Someone told me recently that they owed me a fall. I do not think this to be true with them but it is a sentiment I find reminds me of you. Speaks only of you. I owe you a fall, John Hamish Watson. I owe you a love story that won't fit on the memory of this phone. I pray you know I am waiting for you in our next life together. I pray I get the chance to be what you deserve then. Until next time then, my dear dear John.

_Click_

_End of new messages. Press 'P' to play old messages._


	19. The Notes

**Authors Note: Hello my sweet darlings! I suppose you've done your waiting (I see the Harry Potter reference there) but who would I be if I didn't have you begging for mercy, twice? If it helps, I had to stop myself from confirming any theories I saw, you clever bunch! Some may have been right, but wheres the fun in spoiling it? I listened to Cosmo Jarvis' "Gay Pirates" while writing most of this, which is only slightly less weird than it sounds. The song doesn't really relate to the story, its just fun and technically there was a touch of pirates in this so there. Regardless, please enjoy!**

**Side Note: This part makes several direct quotes/ references to BBC'S Sherlock, which I credit all pain for to the shows creators/writers!**

Numb.

A word people used often enough. John had thought, for the majority of his life in fact, that he had understood what this word meant. Had grasped the definition and could list moments when what he'd been feeling could have been described as this particular lack of feeling. When he'd been told Harry had relapsed again, when he'd lost his first soldier in the war and had known it was an eighteen year old kid 3000 kilometers from home, when he'd first told parents that their child wasn't going to make it and that he was sorry there was nothing more he could do because the word inoperable also had a fixed definition just like numb. If anyone had asked, that is what John would have said. He would have told them that he didn't let the hurt get too far down because that is what both a soldier and a doctor had to do.

Numb.

A word people used often enough. Everyone and John had been using it wrong.

_This_ was numb.

The strange floating sensation. Like he was watching someone else crying in a plaid armchair with memories of two goodbyes sinking into every pore of their skin. Two goodbyes from the same voice. As if John himself wanted to go out and buy more milk while this grieving thing sat in his living room for the afternoon. They were separate, they had to be. John and the grieving thing. If they weren't, John would crumble. Every speck of him would turn to dust and he would just be more particles floating in the stale air of 221B. Because how on earth could anyone feel all that? Looking down at the grieving thing, John marvelled at it. At the look of pain, of sheer agony. And the palatable weight of loss. How one could look at this thing in the armchair and know beyond a doubt that it was grieving the memory of something spectacular without ever asking if you were right. If the grieving thing looked a bit like him, John's mind was quick to remind him he was too busy feeling nothing for that to be him. Numb. No memories. He didn't let the hurt get too far down because that is what both a soldier and a doctor had to do.

_Turn around and walk back the way you came now._

It was too late for that now.

_Just do as I ask, please_

Hadn't he always? Hadn't he done everything the detective had ever asked of him? Was this the cost of letting yourself care for someone like Sherlock Holmes? Numbness and fire and nothing and everything and emptiness and too much. Was it what the other man had been warning him of the whole time, to not get too close because no good could come of it?

_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop._  
_I love you John…_

"No you don't," he bit out to the silent sitting room and the blank phone on the arm of his chair.

_I…I…I can't come down so we'll… we'll just have to do it like this. _  
_More deeply and thoroughly than I would have considered myself capable of…_

"You loved me. There's a difference," anger never broke through the cloud of detached oblivion but the words were still harsh. Difficult to say.

_An apology. It's all true._  
_You are my heart John Hamish Watson and it is a miracle you exist._

It didn't feel miraculous.

It felt like nothing. It felt numb. John wanted to think of other things.

_Why are you saying this?_  
_I can't stay, but I don't want to go_

He thought about what his answer had been to those children in Afghanistan. How he had said that angels poked all the holes in the sky because they wanted to see everyone they'd left behind, that that was how people you loved watched over you after they died. He'd not told them that when you are looking at a star, you are looking at the past. Looking at explosions that happened trillions of miles away and all you were seeing was the last bit of light. He'd not told them that the Sun could go out and they wouldn't know for eight minutes. That the universe could shift and end and you wouldn't know for 480 seconds.

_So wherever you are, I think you brave._  
_I'm a fake._

Somewhere along the way, John had got lost in those seconds. He'd spent three years in those seconds, trying to ignore the way everything felt colder and looked a bit dimmer. The last message felt like the world going black, leaving him to wonder how he'd missed all the signs that this was coming. When he hadn't missed anything at all, not really. Stars don't make a habit of telling you they are only going to shine for so long.

_So brave that you will believe I've told the truth._  
_The newspapers were right all along…_

In the end, it hurt no matter what.

Past tense, present tense. What difference did it make? He'd lost Sherlock Holmes. The man who had found a broken old soldier, taken one look and fixed him. Who had shown John the battlefield he'd needed because they could go to war on it together. The one person who could have taught him about bees and fill John with a certainty that no topic had ever been as interesting.

He'd still lost all that.

_You understand this, don't you?_  
_Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up._

John Hamish Watson wanted it back.

Anyone who knew him would already understand why. There was no puzzle to solve.

John briefly thought of hailing a cab and going to the cemetery. If only to tell the familiar tombstone that he was sorry this was the one time he couldn't do as the world's only consulting detective had asked. That, no matter what the other man had thought, he couldn't do the impossible. There were no good days to have without Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was so very tired of being the courageous one. He briefly thought of doing all that. But deadmen don't know when they get ignored. Besides, John couldn't be sure if the visual would make him more certain of his choice or waver in his resolve.

_Even if there is no God for you to believe in…_  
_The first time we met…the first time we met…_

He would just go. The sooner he forgot the difference between love and loved the better.

Sherlock's room. Mechanical movements carried him there and John tried not to think of being machines. This was where he wanted to be. Even if, after three years, it held little of the essence of the man whose sanctuary it had once been. Even if it were no more Sherlock than the rest of the flat, it still felt right. It was a room the detective had never invited people in to. It was another secret part of the man John had known for far less time than he'd have preferred. So it felt right. With all the secrets he'd learned, for all the parts he'd been missing when having those parts could have meant putting things back together. Shouldn't he be in a place just like that? A place just as secretive, just as unexplored. To let the rest of the world know that the fragments of Sherlock Holmes cut like daggers but John couldn't stop himself from clutching ever tighter. He would take the secrets and the parts, bury himself in the story of two men which could not end but somehow had an ending any way.

_A person can still pray_  
_Nobody could be that clever_

The room was comforting. The cool feel of polished metal in his hands cleared some of the cobwebs of numb away.

_I'm sorry there's a plan John but there had to be._  
_You could_

In many ways, Sherlock had been right about beginnings and the important role John's gun had played in one of them. The best one. The doctor could sit on the edge of an overly expensive bed and cradle in his soldier hands an object which had once saved the detective from himself. Had saved the man from the game. From proving how clever he was. In many ways, Sherlock had been right about how significant this made the gun. The gun had saved Sherlock. In it's final act, the gun would save what was left of John Watson too.

_I pray there are hundreds of worlds and London's waiting for us._  
_It's a trick. Just a magic trick._

Maybe he should tell Harry. Or Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Maybe even Mycroft, hadn't Sherlock said to try? Should he tell them even if they would understand on their own, even if they had probably all shared this tiny fear over the three years in which John hadn't gotten any better at being on his own?

_I pray I find you in each and every one._  
_No. Alright, stop it now._

Would they like to know that John had still cared? Would have cared more, much more. If Sherlock hadn't become an anchor weighing him down so heavily with guilt and love too overpowering to let just sit in his chest.

He could tell Harry that she needed to stay sober, even through this because John wasn't worth throwing her life away for. He could tell Lestrade that the man was good and important, had always been an excellent friend so John was truly sorry he would miss their next pub night.

_I pray they are all full lifetimes after this one because I do not want to leave you again too soon, it is too difficult._  
_No stay exactly where you are. Don't move._

He could tell Molly that she had to stay kind, that it was her greatest flaw. He could tell that caring from the sidelines in her own way had always helped. He could tell Mycroft that he did not hate him, that forgiveness was forgiveness even if it came too late.

_I pray you will not leave either._  
_Please, will you do this for me?_

There were many things John could tell people. But none would be more true than the fact that Sherlock Holmes had left first. And where the great man went, John was compelled to follow.

_I pray I never hurt you in our new lives._  
_This phone call – it's... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?_

Was that what he ought to do? Leave a note? Balancing the soothing weight of calculated physics and steel in one palm, it didn't seem that important. Lining up a single appealing bullet into the chamber, whatever else he might have told people became a distant memory replaced with thoughts of a second chance in that place Sherlock kept saying he was.

Anyone who knew him would already understand why. There was no puzzle to solve.

In the quiet of Sherlock's room, a peaceful quiet for the first time in so many years, John didn't feel doubt. His hands didn't shake and his leg wasn't hurting him. Nerves of steel. The battlefield and Sherlock Holmes. At least one more time, one more adventure.

_I owe you a fall John Hamish Watson_  
_Goodbye John._

There was a click of a trigger which John had already known sounded very different from the click of a phone .

_I pray I get the chance to be what you deserve then. _  
_No, Sherlock!_

John Watson wouldn't leave a note. Sherlock Holmes had already left two.

_Until next time, my dear dear John._

**Authors Note: Did I say twice? I think I said twice. I'm sorry my angels!**


	20. The Ways

**Authors Note: So sorry my loves, this is a bit late coming! Please enjoy never the less, because look- the story isn't over until the fat lady sings! The musical inspiration here was "The Grace" by Neverending White Lights and Dallas Green which is an old song but so tragically fitting for this piece that I couldn't stop listening to it!**

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted. John had made that clear, had told Harry on several occasions so it wasn't possible for her to plead ignorance. Just a coffin and a few kind words if anyone felt like it. She was not allowed to dress him up in his old military uniform because it did nothing but remind John of a bullet ripping through him. She was not allowed to have any final salute, no guns blasting out his send off. Do not, under any circumstances, let Mum pick out the flowers because John would have hated to be buried surrounded by daffodils and baby's breath.

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted. Harry knew that. She'd been told.

On a clear day, steady as a soldier, which was fitting. In the same cemetery that John had visited like clockwork for three years, a place the ex-army doctor would have felt at home.

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted. That, and maybe a patch of earth somewhere near Sherlock's. Right beside, if he'd had a choice. People would talk. People did little else. If that was as close to the detective as John could ever be, he'd have taken it. Mrs. Hudson would still visit, it would be easier on her hip this way. She'd be less mad at John, the woman had been there to watch the deterioration after all. Unlike Sherlock, John had displayed clear signs that this could be the eventual outcome. So less mad, but still a bit. Which was fine. It was all fine.

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted. And a patch of earth somewhere near Sherlock. Those two things, and maybe a half decent tombstone with nothing but his name. John Watson on the side of Sherlock Holmes. That'd be perfect, if anyone had been able to ask his opinion on the matter. That way people would see them together like that for years, decades, centuries. Long after both sets of bones had turned to dust and the polished wood had rotted away. People would see them and wonder what the story was. Or maybe they'd already know the story, and the graves would be just a symbol of an unseen abrupt conclusion. Maybe they'd already know the story and would taste a bit of the tragedy of it all. Maybe they'd already know the story and they'd come to understand why John did what he did. What he must have already done where they are.

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted. And a patch of earth, and a tombstone with a story.

A simple funeral was all he'd ever wanted.

John Hamish Watson was, once again, not getting what he wanted.

_Click. Click. Click_

It was like something out of a bad dream. A cruel joke by the universe at John's expense. As if a pale hand was reaching across three years and a lifetime to say _If I can't shoot at the walls when they deserve it, why do we have a gun at all?_.

_Click. Click. Click_

Nothing. The wrong kind of nothing. The kind of nothing where everything was still _there_. The thick drawn curtains still blocked out all but a fraction of the fading sunlight. The fabric of the duvet clutched in his free hand still felt too luxurious to be something people actually used just for sleeping. His hands were still steady, fighting off the urge to shake. John's leg was still a stoic reminder that it was _all_ in his head. Psychosomatic. Blood still rushed through the circuit of his veins and arteries. Air still whizzed through the branches in his lungs. Breathing, breathings boring. He could still think well enough to pick up on all these signs of life and deduce with reasonable certainty that they were signs of life in him.

Still. Still. Still.

Unmoving and unchanging. It made John want rip his throat to shreds from screaming, tear the rest of himself to pieces somehow because those were two things he could not be. Unmoving and unchanging. Not since the force, the hurricane, that was Sherlock Holmes' had entered his life. Not since the same man had exited it. A hurricane. Brilliant and terrifying, awe inspiring and destructive, there one day and gone the next.

John was still here and it wasn't fair.

A bent firing pin? That was what separated him and Sherlock? He'd serviced the gun a few days ago, it was not possible that it had been damaged. Not when John had no reason to be chasing after people who ought to be shot at. So someone had tampered with it. There was really only one person with the foresight, the opportunity and the heartbeat to do so.

Mycroft.

The git. The absolute wanker.

John took it back, he did in fact hate Mycroft Holmes. More than he hated rooftops and green tea.

He stomped back into the sitting room, vaguely aware that the whole flat wasn't actually red that was just his eyes playing tricks. The frankly thoroughly abandoned scuffed up hand-me-down phone John had left on the coffee table after phoning Lestrade for information was quickly picked up as the doctor sat on the couch. A text would do. Best to find a way to properly articulate how sick he was of being made to dance like a puppet on strings.

_Piss off – JW_  
_Poor timing is, as ever, poor timing Doctor Watson – MH_

What was that supposed to mean? Most likely nothing at all, he figured unsettling half answers probably ran in the gene pool. That was not what he needed to hear. John Watson would do as he pleased with his pathetic excuse for a life, even if it meant giving it away at the altar of Sherlock Holmes. What gave Mycroft the right to say any different?

It wasn't as if there weren't other ways.

There were plenty of painkillers left in the medicine cabinet of the bathroom, remnants of a time long passed when John thought the return of phantom pains were temporary just like the deaths of detectives. He'd stopped taking them when he realized that they wouldn't work for the rest of his life and an addiction was pointless. Now, however, he could make up for lost time and all the days when he'd ignored the brutal ache. Now John could take a handful, maybe two. Now he could count out each pill and take them one at a time if he wanted until he fell asleep, a half-experiment that would make him smile a bit before getting his mad man back. Being unbelievably tired, bone tired, bone marrow tired. He could sleep the way Sherlock Holmes had described.

There were plenty of bars, plenty of barstools and plenty of pints or glasses of things stronger than John Watson could be. He could go like a true Watson, finish what his relatives had started. It might take longer but maybe fulfilling a destiny was meant to. He could surprise Sherlock one more time if he did.

There were plenty of cars and trains taking people places they thought mattered even when John knew that they were being fed a lie. That way would only take a single step to make everything go away. Close your eyes and think of England. Or think of dark curls going in all directions like they were fleeing the scene of the crime. Or of great wool coats whipping in the wind on the corner of a street, in the air above the pavement. Or of piercing eyes the colour of a hurricane. A step and it was over. Steps were very much like leaps and since he wasn't fond of rooftops, maybe a step would suit John Watson just fine.

The wrong phone buzzed again.

_Foolhardy. You should heed my advice and not act recklessly John. It is not what my brother would have wanted – MH_

Mycroft Holmes didn't know his brother. Not like John did.

The impulse to just call Sherlock to confirm this mindset was so powerful when it washed over John that it took several ragged breaths to remember no one was there to answer on the other end. No one had in three years and it hurt to test that theory. These facts didn't stop his unsteady fingers from lingering over the contact still saved on the phone just under M. Holmes.

Hadn't Sherlock said something about saying things still being important, even if no one ever heard?

The unsteady fingers of John Watson had gotten too good at pressing buttons. It took two rings for John to realize what he'd done. Another for him to think that he ought to hang up. By the time that thought was strong enough to turn into an action, the rings had been cut off by the answering message which also managed to cut off any impulse in John too.

_You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If you have a case, leave a message. Don't be boring. Should you be unaware of whether your case is interesting or not, odds are it isn't so kindly go away. If this is Mycroft, piss off as well. If you're calling from Tesco's, I need patches._

The same message as had been there when John spent the first three months expecting Sherlock to answer every time he tried it. The ending still caused that lump of barbed elegant words to cluster together in his throat. Long after the beep encouraging John to speak. The phone and his therapist, it wasn't really surprising which of them won out first.

"God, how did you do this so many times? I feel like a twat doing this, you didn't answer when someone called before let alone now. You seriously just acted like I was still in the room whenever I left the flat didn't you? Of course you did. Only you would. Look, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to you Sherlock. Couldn't you just tell me, a hint or something? Bloody hell, this is stupid. You're dead and I'm obviously bonkers because I want you to tell me what this phone is for. Because it's pretty shit as far as I can tell. And I can't figure out why you'd do that. I already feel pretty shit with the whole being dead thing. I just want to know why Sherlock, why does this matter now? I can't deduce whatever it is so… I need you to not be dead. I'm serious this time. I need you to tell me I'm being an idiot. I need you to not be dead. I need you to give me a chance. I just… I want a chance. Why can't you stop being dead long enough to give me that? Why can't you stop being dead? I need you to not be dead."

An angry fumble of buttons ended what might have been the worst call-me message John had ever left. Scratch that, there was no might have been. It was a stupid idea. It did nothing but bring fresh hot tears to the corners of his eyes. Made John wonder if he'd shrivel up like a raisin if he had enough stupid ideas. Made him wondered if that could be another way. He would be okay with it, if it was.

In the mix of more misspent tears and lingering thoughts on inventing new ways, John fell into a frustrated semblance of sleep.

* * *

He woke up to the shrill ring of a phone.

_Far too early_ he thought from the uncomfortable dent in the haggard piece of furniture he'd made over night. A look out the window through bleary eyes confirmed that it couldn't have been much past dawn.

The hospital calling then, most likely. He had missed his first shift back yesterday. To be fair, John hadn't been keeping track of the days all that closely and he'd intended on missing everything today so the fact that he was there to answer the phone was something.

"Hello?," he asked groggily, idly taking in the fact that his phone felt a bit odd today.

"If you'd still like the chance to know why, I'd suggest you get that."

John froze. He expected everything in the world froze. That theory was squashed by the soft knock at the door.

Authors Note: Again, I'll update as soon as I can my sweets! This might be three horrible endings in a row, which I swear wasn't planned at the start!


	21. The Knocks

**Authors Note:Gah I'm getting pretty terrible for being late, I'm sorry loves! The next one will hopefully be up sooner! "If You Could See Me Now" by The Script was on repeat for this chapter, so feel free to listen to that as well.**

Knocks were curious things.

John was a soldier. Sometimes. John was a doctor. Sometimes. John had considered himself to be the only consulting detective's assistant in the world. Sometimes. What was important to remember was that he could be a soldier, or a doctor, or a consulting detective's assistant at any given moment. He was made up of all three. A killer, a healer and one to spot the difference.

A soldier knew that if something felt off-balance that they should get back up, patrol the area, secure the perimeter. A doctor knew that if something seemed not quite right that they should dig deeper, look more closely, find the signs of life and preserve them. A consulting detective's assistant knew that a soldier and a doctor were likely to miss all the important parts because they did not observe, didn't think it through.

So John tried to think but his head felt too fuzzy.

Knocks were curious things.

If John had ever been the brave one, it didn't feel like it then.

Feeling the sleek feather-light weight in his hand, his eyes skimmed over to the coffee table. The old scratched phone lay there undisturbed from the night before.

"Wrong phone," he said dumbly. Glad for a moment, before he remembered that there was nothing unusual about the circumstance, that no one had heard him say that. Obvious.

Someone had called Sherlock's phone. And wasn't that odd because people don't call the long departed. Which put the count at two unsettling occurrences.

Not just someone though. Wrong phone, right voice.

Smooth as the sky over a desert, deep like a bullet wound 3.7 centimetres off fatal.

Wrong phone, right voice. An impossible voice.

Dead as the desert under an endless sky, dead as a bullet wound not 3.7 centimetres off anything.

Knocks were curious things.

If John had ever been the brave one, it didn't feel like it then. It felt like phantom limbs moving and pain all in his head. Psychosomatic. It felt like not breathing because if dead things needed air then John could do without. It felt like the cold metal of a doorknob and the disappointment in his hand when cold metal didn't mean a trigger.

Knocks were curious things. They happened without warning. They could come softly or make the frame of the door shake with their fury. They could be there today and gone tomorrow. Hurricanes.

They could be answered or ignored. But sometimes-soldiers, sometimes-doctors, sometimes-consulting detective's assistants were never any good at ignoring danger. There was only one other option and a hand lightly tanned from the wrist down twisted the handle of a door instead of pulling the trigger on another gun.

If the voice on the phone hadn't forced his body into shock, what was standing at the top of seventeen stairs would have. Dark brown almost black hair, slicked back except for the fringe hanging loosely straight in the front. A far too casual button up shirt that appeared to be made of light-wash denim but also looked incredibly soft so John guessed cotton. Form fitting black jeans, actually denim this time. And a pair of canvas shoes which reminded John of the twenty something's who always messed up his order at the coffee shop. The whole package over a tall frame, too skinny yet visibly more solid than the memory it brought up. Added muscle, a strange thing for a corpse to have.

None of it fit the mental image John had of his flatmate, which was good considering it couldn't be his flatmate. "You're dead," he said, some part of him making a mental note that he really needed to stop saying dumb things out loud.

Had his life been a movie, the type dead flatmate's claimed would only lead to a world full of Anderson's if gone unchecked, this would be the moment. When he would hit this strange dead thing until the world went red and there was nothing strange about being dead anymore. When he would cry until drying up like a raisin was a way and he'd personally invented it. When he'd say more dumb things like _get out_ or _stay_.

John said nothing. Numb. The corpse watched him with invading eyes. Eyes too powerful to be called a mere tropical storm. Hurricanes.

But that wasn't possible. Corpses didn't hold storms and Sherlock was dead. Three years made that pretty obvious even to, especially to, John. Clear as blood on pavement, as apparent as a pulse that wasn't there, as simple as blank eyes containing not even a gust of wind.

Forget the evidence to the contrary. Forget optical invasions, visible pulse points, intact skulls, the gentle in's and out's of air in a set of lungs which should not exist. Three years said so.

"You're dead," he repeated with no uncertainty, a command in the words willing the corpse to explain itself at once.

"Yes, and no."

John wondered briefly if maybe he had died the day before and this was just what happened after you died.

He wondered briefly if this was Heaven or Hell.

A Sherlock alive, existing in all the places John still was, had to be Heaven. But a dead Sherlock talking to a dead John might not have been. Especially considering how the dead kept insisting it was alive, which wasn't fair because John had died to fix that problem.

_Why do you always have to be where I'm not_ he thought bitterly, consciously taking a step away from the dead or maybe not dead verison of Sherlock because he had learned that being close hurt something fierce.

"I'm here, I'm right here" the correct voice whispered and the words felt like a shutdown command in John's brain.

This Sherlock knew what he was thinking. This Sherlock did that thing with his voice that John had only ever heard through a phone but could still recognize instantly. Evidence to the contrary.

"You can't be. You're dead. I saw it, you made me see it. You're dead," he argued, doubt forcing him to look over this supposedly not dead body in front of him again.

It stood without an ounce of natural grace, unlike the Sherlock that John remembered. The posture was almost military except for the details. So just tense, intentional, purposeful control of limbs. Evidence to the contrary.

"I know what I did John. And I'm…I am sorry for that. But it was necessary."

It wasn't the logic of the word _necessary_, it was the emotion of an apology being stomped out by all that logic which made some piece of John's brain go _why do you always do that Sherlock?_ like a flesh memory. Then he froze again but John could still see all the evidence to the contrary to disprove the theory that anything froze with him.

This was Sherlock. This was Sherlock Holmes answering a call that reached across a lifetime. Or possibly no more than a minute.

That did feel miraculous.

John Hamish Watson had gotten what he wanted. One more time. One more adventure. One more miracle.

That did feel miraculous, until it didn't.

"How…how could you do that? You were gone, dead, for three years," and an old bitterness seeped into the words without much effort. Even as his mind grappled with were gone and were dead instead of _are_ gone and _are_ dead. Tenses, he'd always been terrible with them.

"I can explain all of it I swear but it was all to protect you John. I couldn't let anything harm you, not when I still had the means to prevent it," the painful horrible wonderful miracle Sherlock said with such earnest that it made part of John want to hold onto the other man for at least a few decades. Another part of the doctor was busy clenching tremor free surgeon fingers into fists.

"You couldn't let anything harm me? Are you being serious right now? Christ Sherlock, you bloody well harmed me! You were fucking killing me! Or did you not notice? Were you too busy who knows where to see poor John Watson who doesn't even want to get out of bed because the world seems so god damn depressing without the great Sherlock Holmes? Did you're giant brain miss that? It always misses something doesn't it? Tiny detail, not important right?," John practically growled, unable to stop himself from lashing out the same way he sometimes laughed when what he wanted to do was cry.

It was a sick thrill of vindication to see the pain crumple Sherlock's face, to watch it mark the porcelain skin with all the sins against John. It felt fantastic and horrible at the same time because that is not how a miracle was meant to look.

"I have a gun Sherlock," the doctor added quietly, studying the floor with a newfound interest which John knew the detective could see through but was a comforting trick none the less.

"I have a gun and I would have used it. Bit not good, right? I would have though. It was three years and I couldn't let it go. I couldn't function, I couldn't _move on_. Three years, Sherlock. So I'd love to hear what you think makes any of this fucking okay. I'd really like to know what made you think I'd be right as rain until you showed up again. If you did at all, hell I don't even know if you'd have come back if I wasn't so fucking desperate," he said with more confidence, eyes glaring into the center of the storm defiantly as if daring the hurricane to deny the sometimes-soldier, sometimes-doctor, sometimes- consulting detective assistant any of it. Curse words and all.

"John…please," if he hadn't been in shock twice now, John would have been from the sight of tears in the corners of Sherlock's not-dead stormy eyes. He almost wanted to suggest plugging up such a leak because it could be a way, the research was still pending.

"You're dead and I'm dying. Yet here we are. Explain."

That did feel miraculous, until it didn't.

John imagined that was what loving Sherlock Holmes came down to.

**Authors Note: Your thoughts are as desired as a triple homocide my darlings! The next update should be up in the next day or so**


	22. The Words

**Authors Note: My trying to update quickly seems to keep backfiring, I'm terribly sorry! Hopefully the delays are over now! I've still been listening to The Script for this so I'll suggest "Glowing" this time around if you're interested.**

_You're dead and I'm dying. Yet here we are. Explain_

There are things there aren't words for. Failings in the English language. Shortcomings that John has sometimes wondered if other languages had already overcome. If the yelled Dari he still heard in nightmares would have been capable of filling the gaps of three years and a grave. He didn't know, John didn't speak the language. So he wouldn't know the words if they did exist at all. As it stands, there are things there aren't words for. Things he can't explain.

He can't explain how Sherlock was standing in the doorway without ever entering the flat. John thought it was probably because he hadn't said that would be okay to come in. He also thought that Sherlock was right to be uncertain. For now, the detective could hover in the entrance like a vampire. Which was fine. John figured the two were equally dead, vampires and Sherlock Holmes.

He can't explain the differences in Sherlock, can't mentally put together that three years happened to the other man too. They weren't supposed to. Yet the new clothes dragged up a memory that told him new clothes meant the person was still planning ahead. The strange hair was keeping up appearances, a disguise that reveals too much. A stiff stance and a preference for leaning left told the doctor in John about a severe injury to the right side of that miracle, one that the body was still compensating for even if the pain was old. The shift of the observed limbs to the right as if proving a point made him think about psychosomatic and pain all in the head.

He can't explain Sherlock crying. When John demanded answers from a hurricane, he didn't expect the rain. But Sherlock was crying because he isn't dead. Sherlock was crying and John wondered if the tears were miraculous. Sherlock was crying and John wasn't sure he realized it. Because the detective hadn't looked away, didn't hide the way the pain oozed over the thin lines in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock was crying and it was nothing like a hurricane, it was quiet. It is London rain pattering on the window panes, it is boiled water for tea, it is steam from a kettle.

It is quiet and John can't explain it. He wondered if that was how Sherlock had always cried, if that was why he'd missed it before. He wondered if that was how an eleven year old Sherlock had learned to cry when there was no one around to hear. If that was what tears sounded like when a tiny child had figured out that they didn't matter. If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

The nothing sound made him hurt and almost made him forget about being angry. But John had had so long to be angry that it was just another muscle memory, there without effort.

There are things there aren't words for. John demanded Sherlock find them anyway.

It was what he deserved, what he was owed. Because even if he was not dying, Sherlock would kill him. Even if the other man was crying. Even if all his muscles, organs, tissues, and cells were in working order. Even if Sherlock had never killed a man and John had, he still wanted to label Sherlock murderer and be done with it. In the end, it would always be Sherlock.

_You're dead and I'm dying. Yet here we are. Explain_

"Start at the beginning," John said in a much less harsh tone, remembering that Sherlock had once had trouble picking where to begin.

Even if Sherlock was the ending, beginnings were still important just the same.

The brunette took a few deep breathes and the question of whether he was still counting them trickled back into John's mind.

"When did you start them," he added quietly, knowing Sherlock would know what he meant while also knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

" After the pool. Moriarty was right; he realized it before I did even. I meant to end the game first," Sherlock told him in a surprisingly steady voice and John again marvelled at the man's ability to hide even if it was the last thing that should be surprising.

_I'll burn the heart out of you_

"I was always alone before, like I told you," the detective added before John could admit he didn't understand how Sherlock dying would help anything or anyone.

"I was always alone but it didn't bother me. I thought I was good at being alone, do you understand? I did try to explain it before. I was always alone and that was fine. Then you showed up," John did everything he could to ignore the resignation in Sherlock's voice.

"You showed up and I realized I'd been alone that whole time. You showed up and I realized I wasn't as good at being alone as I thought. Alone meant I could die and it didn't matter either way. You showed up and you had to matter. You had to, didn't you? There's a difference between being alone and being lonely and when you would go somewhere I was just lonely. I was just lonely, but I was never alone. You made everything better. I chose you John, over the drugs and… and not existing. I wanted to stay. I did, but…" Sherlock only looked away then, studying floor boards in a way that made John want to ask if the patterns in the grain gave away any of what the detective had missed in so many years. He might have asked if it weren't for the barbed wire he had yet to have surgically removed from his throat.

"But it was not worth compromising your safety. I knew Moriarty would go after you again, I'd shown too much that night. I meant what I said John, I wouldn't make you a target. So I would take myself out of play if I had no other way to stop him and you'd be safe. I thought leaving you messages might help you understand that, give you some closure. I thought it would be kinder if you had an explanation for my actions, to have that as a precaution," Sherlock explained and it did help erase some of the muscle memory anger from John. Some.

"So you meant to die then, you didn't mean to turn up here again?," John somewhat accused, narrowing his eyes.

"I…I didn't know. I wasn't even sure if I'd have to jump and I couldn't be sure it would work if I did, there was a large room for error. I only planned to die as a last resort but I had to have the package in order beforehand, in case I was wrong," the detective replied without hesitation, though he did look guilty under John's glare.

"How'd you do it?," John asked, surprising himself in the process. What he had meant to ask was why do all that for him. Part of him never wanted to know, never wanted to forgive. Another had to know, had to know with the desperation of a man lost and looking for water. Deserts and hurricanes.

"Neuromuscular blocking drug, Tubocurarine. Injected, it has few side effects and is less likely to cause cardiac arrhythmias than some of the others. Produces paralysis and slows your heart rate though, good as dead," Sherlock admitted with a bitter looking smile that John didn't think was a smile at all.

"Why the roof? If you were going to fake your fucking death, why do it like that?," he asked, frustrated with not understanding why it was something that John had had to keep his eyes on.

"I needed to draw Moriarty out, he needed my suicide to complete his story. Roof is a nice spot to do it," the detective mumbled with the same look on his face.

What John ought to have done was yell, scream, and shout until his vocal chords couldn't even form a whisper in the future. Should have told this not dead miracle to go to hell, go back to hell in fact. But there were lots of things he ought to have done and many things he did didn't have a point to them.

"Moriarty wasn't there," he offered instead, voice dangerously quiet.

It was true. Lestrade had told him at the funeral. When John was busy wondering if Sherlock would have found the sparse funeral sad or fitting, the D.I had told him that all they'd found on the roof was the phone. They hadn't found any reason, just like John.

"He was, he's the only reason I had to go through with it," Sherlock met his eyes again there, red rimmed storms locking on deep blue skies like those above sandy dunes.

"What's that supposed to mean Sherlock? No one pushed you off, I saw remember? There was just you, like always," John said with a bitter smile all his own.

"That's because Jim had already shot himself by the time you got there."

The silence in the flat might have lasted an eternity, or possibly no longer than a minute. It was deafening, it reminded John of suns going out and the last three years so he didn't let it last another eternity.

"Shot himself? There wasn't a body at the scene," he questioned, hands curling into fists defiantly, realizing a dead Moriarty left more questions than answers. The last thing he wanted in the whole world was more questions, John already had too many.

Sherlock hesitated there more than at any of his other questions, like the long pauses on the recordings before he told John something particularly unpleasant.

"They needed one to bury," the detective finally said in that strange whisper, and John was surprised to find he was still standing a few moments later.

A sparse funeral and a coffin too expensive to justify putting in the ground. A polished stone with gold writing, looking brand new even as years passed. Trips to the cemetery, begging for a second chance.

It was not the body of Sherlock Holmes that had beared witness to John's tears. It was the body of a psychopath and the ex-army doctor felt ill.

"So he died and I buried him. And what? You felt like taking a leap off a fucking building anyway?"

Sherlock had the audacity to look appalled.

"I told you, I tried to explain. I didn't want to go; I didn't do it lightly John. He… he had his own contingency plan in place, Moriarty. Three bullets. If I didn't jump, he'd go after everyone. And I… I couldn't let him!," Sherlock managed to yell back, the quiet tears forming again and John felt lost in a forest he didn't have the map for.

"Three bullets for who? Me?," he asked, quickly adding the questions to the list things he'd wished he never asked Sherlock Holmes, wished he could take back.

"Not just you, everyone," Sherlock whispered, in control of his voice again. The way he said the words sent shivers up John's spine and made the doctor feel certain the brunette hadn't been the first person to say those things. That he was merely quoting someone else.

"Who?," he repeated because apparently his mouth wasn't quite finished saying dumb things.

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you," the detective told him with more aguish in his voice than John would have thought possible, like the idea was a ball of barbed wire not unlike the one in John.

There are things there aren't words for. He can't explain the differences in Sherlock, can't mentally put together that three years happened to the other man too. They weren't supposed to.

But they did. They happened. They happened and it was somewhere John hadn't been. They happened and he didn't know what that entailed. They happened and all John could see was evidence to the contrary of a corpse. They happened and all John could think about was pain, perhaps not all in the head.

Sherlock Holmes was a bit broken too. Sherlock Holmes was a warzone. A battlefield. An explosion. Gunfire. A single bullet not 3.7 cm off anything. Maybe he always had been. But a warzone, a battlefield, an explosion, gunfire and single bullets needed soldiers. Needed doctors. They might even find a use for someone who can tell the difference.

"Three bullets, three bodies- unless I jumped," the detective added solemnly, in a quiet way that held enough regret for a lifetime. A full one.

There are things there aren't words for. Failings in the English language. Shortcomings he thought other languages might fill if he could only learn them. Because how could John explain to a man willing to die for him that all he wanted was to give that man a reason to live. A reason to live for a couple of centuries, a reason to buy a big white house in the country, a reason to tell him about the bees, a reason to write a story that didn't end as long as people told it.

John decided to say another stupid thing.

"So tell me something, were they all true?" every message, every bit of Sherlock Holmes that had been given to him like pieces of jagged glass John was meant to cherish.

He asked that and, judging by the way Sherlock stilled into silence, it might have been the wrong thing to say. There were still years John wanted to know every detail of, had to know every detail of if he was meant to learn to accept miracles. But beginnings were important all the same.

He asked that when he really meant to say _stay_.

**Authors Note: Again, an update will be in a few days loves!**


	23. The Glass

**Authors Note:I should probably just give up being on time at the point, I'm so sorry that I haven't updated! I do hope you enjoy this chapter, and feel free to listen to "Stars" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals because I mean really stars and this story?**

Jagged glass was funny. Not as funny as rooftops that spared lives or poisons in palaces that didn't exist where you are. But funny, in it's own right.

_Every bit of Sherlock Holmes that had been given to him…_

Jagged and sharp and cutting. Pieces the man himself ripped out to offer as bizarre comfort. Dangerous like crime scenes, like hidden knives and running on instincts. Painful, like falling and falling and having to wonder what happened to those instincts if they could be this wrong.

Jagged glass was funny. It made up the warzone of the world's only consulting detective as if he was some morbid miracle of stained glass. Stained light blue like mist and dark red like blood mixed with pavement.

Jagged glass was especially funny because it could be changed. Made smooth again, fitted together.

But glass doesn't know how to repair itself and neither does Sherlock Holmes. John could tell, watching the not-corpse shuffle his feet and clench his jaw into a tight line. There are things there aren't words for, and then there are things whose words you just don't want to say.

"Were they?," he repeated softly, but couldn't help crossing his arms defensively. A doctor and a soldier, healing and pulling apart.

Whatever answer John had been expecting, it was not the one he got.

"You weren't meant to hear those," Sherlock told him in a firmer voice than the detective had managed so far.

It left John at a blank. Left him thinking about glass slivers under the skin briefly. Bits of Sherlock wedged and lost in the microscopic folds of his epidermis.

"What's that supposed to mean?" because what good were precautions that weren't meant to go into action when needed?

"Not…not if it worked," the detective clarified, diligently looking anywhere that wasn't ex-army doctor occupied.

And John understood. It was horrible, but that was the sort of thing Sherlock Holmes had a way of making you understand.

"Only if you were dead, I only got to know then," John asked without really asking because it was one of the few questions he already knew the answer to. Which was helpful, as Sherlock hadn't looked like he was going to supply one himself.

His life was not the makings of a Hollywood movie. John didn't explode straight away because that was something best left to warzones. He didn't cry because he wasn't a hurricane or a miracle. He was deserts. Harsh, dry and unforgiving most days. He was deserts. With skies so big and full of stars that kids would believe you if you told them the stars were angels because there was so god damn many that it just made sense. He was deserts. Even when the dust of his heart was being trampled by a ghost. He was deserts. Enduring, merely waiting for rain to come back.

"Yes John, that was more or less the point." Sherlock mumbled.

"And I didn't get any say in that? When it is that you finally decide to be honest with me one bloody time?"

"No, you didn't," there was a new fierceness there, a certainty, that caused a flare of anger in John because there wasn't even a need for a second thought in the other man. John just didn't get to know and that was all there was to it

"Whys that? Why did you need to be dead for me to know the first fucking thing about you!," he yelled before he could stop himself, before John could remember that he had to know the answer so it wouldn't do to push miracles away.

"Because it's mine!," Sherlock seethed back through gritted teeth, looking as though he meant to crowd into John's space but never taking the first step.

John remembered combat breathing. Four Four Four. He sighed.

"I know that, I do. It's just that really. That right there-,"he said, pointing at the phone which wasn't nearly as precious has it had been the day before, "is your life. Your entire life Sherlock, and I didn't know any of it," John explained, wanting to look away in embarrassment but part of his brain had decided it couldn't let Sherlock out of his sight long enough for such a thing. Stupid decisions like _stay_

The hurt that flashed in the detective's eyes did seem to dampen any fury at the line of questioning.

"I wanted to know that, I wanted to know about your life. I still want to know. All you let me in on was you dying and I'd rather forget that," he added, bitter fake smiles again.

"I didn't…I didn't want you to pity me," Sherlock said so quietly John had to question whether he actually heard it.

"I couldn't leave you with nothing so I told the homeless network to only deliver the package once they knew it was safe. That's the problem with trusting paranoid schizophrenics I suppose. They must have heard about Moran though and I tried to intercept it before it could reach you but it was too late. Those messages are the worst of me John. I wouldn't wish for anyone to know, can you blame me for wanting to hide that from you most of all?" the detective questioned in a way that probably required an answer but John didn't have anything concrete.

_Yes, and no. _he thought

"Whose Moran?," he asked instead.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, most likely seeking out the answer John hadn't said out loud. But the doctor was reasonably sure that there was no way to tell just by looking at him that he did blame Sherlock for quite a bit of hiding, that it was just John wasn't sure what blaming would accomplish if he gave it a whirl. Reasonably sure.

"Moriarty's second in command, I had…rather a lot of difficulty tracking him down but he made the mistake of coming back to London. Moran was the last thread in Jim's web, the last person who was threatening to take you from me. He won't be able to do that now," Sherlock told him eventually, looking no less uncomfortable saying this than he had when admitting that John gazing at him sadly for all the horribleness in his life was something to avoid.

And there was a finality there. _He won't be able to do that now_ said as fact, written in stone. Part of John was a soldier. Part of him knew without being told. Part of him understood justifiable death, especially when it came to protecting what you held most dear. The rest of him struggled to grasp things said as fact.

Sherlock _had_ killed. Had killed for him. Most likely more than once, you couldn't make a web with just one strand John realized. This strange breathing corpse, this thing broken in ways John didn't know about and a few that he did, had been protecting him as if it were the only logical thing to do. As if John was worth protecting. Which was backwards, terribly so.

Maybe he was well and truly in shock if Moriarty's death hadn't triggered him to pull an explanation for what had kept Sherlock away for so long out of the brunette's throat. But there had to be a reason. There had to be a good one because that was just how insufferable Sherlock Holmes was. He would destroy you, pick you apart until they couldn't identify you from dental records. But then there would be a good reason, a noble reason. And it left John stuck with the feeling that he was _supposed_ to feel grateful that who he had been couldn't be identified now.

"You spent three years doing that?," he questioned softly, bringing out that hurt look in miraculous blue-grey eyes.

"I didn't expect it to take so long, Jim's network was…much more intricate that I'd anticipated. I couldn't let everything I'd done be for nothing, I couldn't come back to you still in danger. So I found them all," the detective told him in that semi-detached way that John had heard before in young soldiers who didn't have parts which understood justifiable death. Not yet.

He had spent almost three years wanting to die, wanting everything that was _still_ there to end, wanting to rest his bone marrow. Sherlock had spent almost three years wanting to live. Two sides of the same coin. John almost felt guilty but that wasn't his place in this.

"I wanted to come back, all the time- constantly," Sherlock added quietly but with his intense gaze never moving off John the same way John's couldn't move off him.

"You should have," John replied without his earlier bite, though he did mean it with the same number of fibres in his body. All of them. Because he would have gone with Sherlock just about anywhere. From a house in Sussex to the end of all things.

_And I said 'dangerous', and here you are_ echoed in his head.

John would have torn the world apart with Sherlock Holmes. If he'd had the chance.

But he hadn't and even now Sherlock was shaking his head.

"You're not a risk I'm willing to take," the detective said. The man who grinned when using a car as a shield for bullets. The man who would consider taking a poisonous pill if it meant he was the clever one. The man who giggled at crime scenes. The man who would jump off a building even if his plan had _a large room for error_. That very man was unwilling to allow anything to hurt John Watson. Which was the irony John himself wasn't quite ready to deal with.

"I'd give you up, every time. If I had to, if it was the only way," Sherlock continued, and John held up a silent hand asking for the brunette to stop which did nothing much of anything.

"I'd have given you up forever. If it were necessary, I'd have given you up because I cannot lose you John, not like that" and there was sadness , and that odd resignation from before. But John didn't think they felt as bad as they had before. They just felt right.

"And that was supposed to work, the plan was supposed to work. I thought it had. But when I tried to stop the package, I found that you…that you were the dangerous thing I hadn't accounted for," Sherlock said in the same tone, and John's mind absently wondered if it were made of arsenic. Two sides of the same coin. Morbid stained glass.

"Well, I couldn't lose you either, not like that," John replied back simply. Sadness and odd resignation. A sense of right.

It felt better. To voice the things whose words you just don't want to say. Even if it made Sherlock's eyes look liquid again. The forest for the trees. Eleven year olds that John would never know who had unruly hair and quiet storms. It felt better. To acknowledge it. They were both strange breathing corpses, things broken in ways John didn't know about and a few that he did.

Sherlock Holmes was a warzone and the battlefield which could make an ex-army doctor terrifyingly steady. Sherlock Holmes was a corpse. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Sherlock Holmes was defibrillating, bringing John back to life with him.

**Authors Note: As ever, I adore any feedback! I will put all my proper thinking skills into getting the next chapter done as quickly as possible!**


	24. The Promise

**Authors Note: Well, I owe a very big apology to all those who followed this story. It has been ages since I updated but I had a great deal of family problems to deal with. It was a difficult time and I didn't have much inspiration to write. However, I couldn't leave this story unfinished and this chapter could not be left as two sentences in a word document on my laptop. So, without further ado, here is essentially the final chapter in our adventure together!**

People often, if not always, assumed John was the stronger of the pair. That Sherlock Holmes was a great mind who may have studied different fighting techniques but John was the muscle when it came down to the wire. That anyone who lived with that same great mind would surely have to be stronger in some way, have defenses that that acidic tongue couldn't penetrate. People often, if not always, assumed this was the case.

John couldn't help but feel they were horribly mistaken.

Because he could not have given up Sherlock Holmes. Even if it was a horrible thing to believe of himself, John was sure he could never have lasted three years if he'd thought he had anything resembling a choice in the matter. It would hurt too deeply and the doctor imagined he would have reached a similar conclusion with the usually faithful click of a trigger. But Sherlock had done it. Because it was the logical thing to do in the situation. Calculated and reasoned and so many words that made John Watson's blood boil because they were all things he could never be when it came to the world's only consulting detective.

"John…John please," Sherlock pleaded, eyes not allowing the silent tears that had welled up in them and John wanted to laugh. Laugh at this emotional, vulnerable, weak, broken man. The very opposite of all the blood boiling words of the detective from three years ago. So unlike the Sherlock he remembered, the doctor half wanted to scream for the real one back- for his memories to still make sense. Half scream and half laugh if he could manage it.

"What Sherlock? What would you like me to say? Oh, you had a very good reason so let's just forget the last three years of _my_ life happened. No harm done?," he mocked angrily, lashing out with the hurt built up in him like layers of sediment.

"I don't know what you want me to do," the other man said after a moment of silence, shifting his weight off of what John was beginning to think was an improperly healed injury- one that part of him thought maybe he would see to later.

"There isn't anything even the great Sherlock Holmes can do," John told him, feeling that satisfying bitterness again.

"You can't take back all the days I couldn't be bothered to leave the flat. You can't take back all the time I fucking wept on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder because I'd found another one of your ridiculous dry cleaning bills. You can't take back three bloody years of me wishing it had been anyone else, that it'd been me that jumped off that roof even. Because I-needed-you-safe. I needed you to be safe, and here and with me and you weren't. There's no taking that back."

"I'm not suggesting that, I know that I can't-"

"Do you? Do you really know that Sherlock? I'm not sure you do because if you know half of how much I love you, you wouldn't be standing there like your fucking explanations are going to fix everything just like that," John seethed at him.

Sherlock looked completely dumbstruck in that moment, mouth hanging half open and the doctor couldn't recall a time when the other man had looked more at a loss for words. He'd never been close enough to tell during the phone call from the roof.

"Did you not work that bit out," he asked snidely, crowding into the detective's space a bit more.

"Did you not deduce that with that brilliant mind of yours? Cause it's true, I love you so god damn much. It's always been you, even before I knew it. I would have loved you until the day I died and it still hurts. And I can't stop it, no matter how much I try or want to. It won't stop," John worked his way up to a yell, failing to control any of his bursts of anger and was surprised to find he'd taken several more steps towards Sherlock without thinking about it.

"Well I did die and that still wasn't enough, so best of luck with that!," Sherlock screeched back, leaving John transfixed and rooted on the spot with a shocked look of his own.

"I died and it still wasn't over. I spent three years fighting to keep it from being over. I spent three years alone every night wishing that when I said something I wouldn't have to pretend you answered me. Wishing I could just come home and pretend it never happened, like I'd never left. Wishing I could go back to the drugs if it meant not feeling so much o/f _this_ anymore. I died and everything I've done just to be able to come back to you _eventually_ isn't enough for you. I stopped myself and I stopped you. And I'd do all of it again if it meant you were still alive to hate me through it."

"I stopped both of us- so this," Sherlock gestured between them in the air of the dusty flat, "is not how this ends," the detective said in a furious and firm voice which offered little room for any argument in return.

_Yes, and no._ John thought.

Because he could not manage holding on to the anger which had been powering him further. To hear how much love had hurt Sherlock in return made something in his chest ache even after all this time.

John wondered briefly whether being left was actually worse than leaving when one didn't want to go.

"I can't have it end like this, I can't. So as long as you promise to stay alive, you can hate me as much as you like. I think I might hate me for what I had to do as well," the detective told him in a voice that sounded like all the fight had drained out of the man to leak all over the floor.

He really needed to sit the Holmes' brothers down and have a talk about self-perception.

"You couldn't do that for me," John reminded him.

"I did John, I did!," the brunette protested.

"Not really," he added in an equally defeated voice.

"I know how long three years is too. Three years of living hell because I had to do everything possible to come back to you. John, I'm not you. I'm not a hero. I never have been. I've tried to save people but I can't do it properly. I can't save someone who doesn't want my help. I did what I had to and I will never be sorry enough for putting you through that, believe me but can you let me be here now? I want to be here now, please just let me try John," Sherlock more than half begged.

"You left," he pointed out before he could help himself.

"And I never will again," was said as solemnly as a prayer meant to last the rest of eternity and all the lives spent together during it.

"How can you be sure?"

"I wouldn't make it if I tried," Sherlock admitted just as plainly and something in John that was broken recognized this sentiment. Latched onto it for the truth that it was.

"I'm so god damn angry with you still. Fucking furious. I want you to leave but don't you ever dare actually do it, do you understand me? I want you to stay. God Sherlock, please just stop leaving me behind," John begged on his own, moving to fill the last few steps of distance between them. Until he was inches from the detective, centimetres from sacred ground.

"I won't, I don't want to. I'm here," Sherlock whisper gently, looking down into the ex-army doctor's face.

John nodded weakly, taking in the gravity in the fact that he could feel body heat off of this walking corpse.

"Right here," the other man said, seeming to unconsciously lean further in with a tilt of his head.

"Here," John repeated when he knew the word meant more than the detective would ever actually say, said the way it was like a promise. It left the doctor wondering if moving closer to Sherlock Holmes could count as something psychosomatic and if that had been his problem all along.

If it was, he would have blamed that first kiss on that. On the inevitable nature of all that they were.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes felt like a storm breaking, like glass melting back into place, like Afghan nights when the cries of war were distant and you could be swallowed by stars.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes felt a bit like dying, like it might be a way John could prove in time.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes felt a bit like _Please, God, let me live._

**Authors Note: I'm planning on adding an epilogue in the next few days to fully wrap things up (smut included in that? Not sure, feel free to leave your opinions) but that'll be all! After everything, I am very proud of this story and all those who have appreciated it along the way! I have several more stories planned for this fandom though, so I don't doubt we'll see each other again soon! As ever, "Until next time"!**


	25. The Story (Epilogue)

**Authors Note: Well here we are, the very end of our tale! This has been a pleasure to write, even if it took ages longer than planned! I'm grateful to anyone who has read, reviewed or left a lovely comment on this piece! I hope we will see more of each other soon!**

**Side note: This epilogue went in a different direction than I originally planned so there is only the faintest glimmer of any smut, apologies if you were looking forward to that at all, it just didn't seem to fit with the rest of the piece. I do hope you enjoy it any way!**

Should anyone have asked, John would not have recommended being anything to Sherlock Holmes. It was not a suggestion he could make to the weak hearted, which was just about everyone where the world's only consulting detective was concerned. Should anyone have asked, John _would_ have said that their life together was a lot of things, that either of them were a lot of things, but easy never factored in.

* * *

They were things there weren't words for.

* * *

Like when the rest of the world learned of Sherlock's return and John had wanted to scream that it wasn't fair for other people to want a piece of the man they hadn't rightfully earned back with years of mourning as John had. Sherlock had taken one look at the doctor before turning off the telly in favour of wrapping the other man in his arms.

Like when John asked on day 1023 if Sherlock would marry him and the detective said no because he did not want John to feel obligated to stay for the sake of traditional morals. He had insisted that the doctor should always be free to find the wife and 2.5 children the older man truly deserved. There was no adequate way of explaining to the brilliant man that no one else had a flying fuck of a chance when it came to replacing him. So John asked every day for a week until the brunette broke down with a _Yes, alright, if you promise to stop being so tedious with your repetition_. A small secretive smile had been on his face.

Like when, on day 1, the ex-army doctor led the strange man into a bedroom the doctor would no longer have to pretend wasn't empty. Steady tanned fingers had pulled buttons from soft worn cotton and taken with them the last of the strange man's defenses. And a naked Sherlock Holmes was breath taking, in a very literal sense as John was quite positive they both stopped breathing for far longer than should be humanly possible. The taller man was gorgeous, beautiful during the day but all the more for the details only John Watson could see up close. There were new scars though. Bright white against slightly less pale skin which was covered in a fine dusting of freckles from a ginger somewhere in the Holmes' gene pool. John ran his hands over every one that day as Sherlock described each of them in turn. A knife fight in South Africa, an ambushed drug pickup in Brazil, a single bullet from the gun of a hired sniper somewhere in the far north of Canada. John's tongue followed everywhere his hands went until the detective was trembling beneath him. The doctor murmured over and over _you are beautiful, you are beautiful, you are beautiful_ until the trembling may have been sobbing but it just meant John knew what kissing Sherlock was like with the added saltiness of tears. The kisses turned heated, desperate for what they had every right to years ago. There was the slick slide of skin, John's fingers carefully stretching Sherlock open while the detective's fingers dug into John's back and his Cupid bow mouth placed wet kisses on the doctor's neck. There were firm hands on sharp hips and a fullness which made Sherlock keen desperately for more- to be closer somehow than this, to swallow all of John Watson up until no one could separate the pair ever again. There were kisses meant to say _I'm sorry_ and scrapes of teeth meant to say _I know_ and after John could see past the white blinding pleasure he drank in the sight of Sherlock flushed with eyes full of something which looked a lot like love.

* * *

They were balls of barbed wire, needing to be untangled but tearing through layers of skin in the process.

* * *

There were mornings when John would wake up to a face full of unruly dark curls and want nothing but to stay in bed for the rest of the day stewing in what felt like an endless pit of anger. On these mornings he did not note how content Sherlock looked when he was still half asleep, nor did he note how that peaceful face would fall when the bright blue eyes looked over at him. On these mornings Sherlock would get up and make the tea and pretend that it did not hurt a funny place inside him to think that John might hate him a little bit forever. On these mornings, John did not comfort that thought away.

There were nights when Sherlock would not pretend and would instead acknowledge that John hated him in a way and that maybe this made him hate John a bit in a way all his own.

They argued, much the same as they always had. About stupid things like who forgot to pick up the milk and what concentration of acid was acceptable in the flat. About less stupid things like when they should start taking cases again and how Sherlock did not get to quit them to try to please John. About very serious things like the regularity with which people must eat even if they don't care about the transport, like the reasonable uses for guns and needles.

* * *

They were notes and ways.

* * *

John was there on day 3078 when Mycroft stopped by to sit in the tattered patterned armchair and tell his brother that their Mummy had died the night before, alone in her manor. John was there when Sherlock quietly wept like a tree no one saw in the forest for a woman he hadn't spoken to in two decades. Both out of intense relief and an unexplainable grief that the detective was surprised to find he felt.

John was there when the greatest mind in the country would come undone. If Sherlock Holmes waged war with himself, then there were days when he did not win. When all the reassurance in the world could not bring him back from the dungeons of his own mind. It would start as a black mood and a vacant stare in John's direction that made the doctor's heart ache. Then the detective would curl in on himself, refusing to speak. On the worst occasions, Sherlock would lock himself in their bedroom and John would pound on the door desperately for hours because he could hear the sobs, the frustrated screams of wanting for nothing but for the noise in that brilliant mind to stop forever. The brunette could stay locked up for days without letting the doctor in until finally the door would creak open and John would always think how ugly this process made Sherlock look. Greasy curls, red eyes with heavy bags, boney limbs with too tight skin. How worn out the other man's demons made him. The doctor would ask _Here?_ and the detective would answer _Right here_ because they both knew what John meant. And John would kiss him and ask Sherlock to tell him about it. Sometimes the detective would, other times his eyes would cloud over again and he would whisper no a thousand times in a voice so terrified that John wondered if maybe he really didn't want to know.

John was there on day 14978.5, in a hospital bed with sheets he was certain were overly starched thinking that doctors really did make the worst patients. Sherlock was looking at him sadly and John was happy knowing that the lines on that beautiful face had not come from frowning. He would have told the strange man- who was no longer a detective unless one counted the case of who ate the last of the marmalade- that this could not be it. That there was more, there always would be. But turning his head to look at this great man drained him of energy and words felt painful on his tongue. Sherlock's thin fingers, softer with age but no less elegant, wrapped tightly around shorter ones that were far from tanned. The strange man leaned in to plant a chaste kiss on John's forehead before whispering that it was alright, that he would remember his promise to find the doctor again in that next life they'd been planning, that John could let go. John was not there on day 14979.

* * *

They were giggling at crime scenes and indecently happy.

* * *

They decided on a blue house near the coast because the colour reminded John of Sherlock's eyes on the mornings when he thought his heart might burst with the feelings it contained for that one person. The doctor made two cups of tea sweetened with honey almost every morning and would pass one over to the strange man with a soft smile. Sherlock had a few more greys in the tangles of his curls but the salt and pepper made him look possibly more distinguished. Even with the ridiculous protective suit on for when he tended to his hives, which he often forgot he was wearing though Sherlock never forgot to point out the particular hideousness of whatever jumper John happened to have chosen. They would nibble on toast with honey and say nothing because neither wanted to miss a second of bliss.

From the comfort of their flat, John wrote countless blog posts with increasingly terrible names. The Caked Crusader, A Hopped Up Scotch, The Tale of Two Felicity's which was actually an interesting case about a set of serial killer twins. Sherlock complained almost daily that John's writing made him sound far too romantic, that there were only so many paragraphs that could be dedicated to one person's eyes or cheekbones before the general public lost interest. John would point out that those where just a few of the features the detective possessed that the public had a right to know about, that he hadn't even gotten to the ones about the pouty lips or lush arse yet. And Sherlock would saunter over to John's arm chair, straddle his lap and ask to hear more of John's thoughts on the subject matter.

John had told himself he would not cry the day they got married because Sherlock Holmes in a suit was nothing new and if he cried over it then he'd be obligated to cry every other day of the week as well. But seeing Sherlock walk up the aisle of the small charming old church instantly brought tiny pinpricks of salt water to his eyes. They took a moment to huff in laughter together through the tears as the justice of the peace read something very nice about the powerful bonds of love and the pull of two souls together. John vowed to always stay, to patch up the detective after every failed experiment and to provide surplus amounts of tea. Sherlock vowed to never leave, to continue his experiments for the sake of science and to drink more tea than any other fluid for the rest of his life. No one objected, which sent John into another giggling fit which was soon accompanied by a deep baritone chuckle because _really_ no one said anything? And later that night- after the dinner and the cake and the dancing and John pulling that expensive suit off piece by piece- they fell asleep in a pile of tangled limbs together.

* * *

And every day was a goddamn miracle.

**Authors Note: It breaks my heart a little to let this one go, but all messages have to end eventually! A new story will be out shortly, I promise! Until next time my lovelies!**


End file.
